m.. 


E  CHANGING 
DRAMA 


ARCHIBALD  HENDERSON 


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THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

GEORGE  BERNARD  SIIAW :  HIS  LIFE 
AND  WORKS 

EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 

INTERPRETERS  OF  LIFE,  AND  THE 
MODERN  SPIRIT 

MARK  TWAIN 

WILLIAM  JAMES.  Translated,  with  Bar- 
bara Henderson,  from  the  French  of  f^mile 
Boutroux 

etc.,  etc. 


THE 
CHANGING  DRAMA 

Contributions  and  Tendencies 


BY 
ARCHIBALD   HENDERSON 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1914 


COPYUIGUT,  1914, 
EY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  October,  1914 


THE    QUINN    1    BODEN     CO.     PRESS 
RAHWAY,    N.   J. 


PN 


c 


Hay  this  book  upon  lier  shrine 
Whose  lifted  torch  lias  lighted  mine. 

Sv^^eet  Heart — great  Heart  of  tenderness: 
Strong-  Hands  to  help — dear  Hands  to  bless; 
Clear  Brain  whose  vision  dwells  in  light: 
Fire  Spirit,  winged  flame  of  white; 
Oh!  Soul — true  Sword  Excalibur: 
Body— fit  sheath  for  soul  of  her! 

/  lay  this  book  upon  her  shrine — 
Hers— since  herself  has  made  it  mine. 


9441C4 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  contemporary  drama  awaits  its  historian 
and  interpreter.  There  is  no  dearth  of  critical 
studies  of  the  drama  of  the  period.  But  the  pub- 
lished works  deal  for  the  most  part  with  individual 
figures,  or  else  with  movements  limited  either  to 
a  brief  period  of  time  or  to  a  single  country. 
Every  one  who  is  truly  interested  in  the  drama  as 
a  life  form,  in  reference  to  the  theater  and  to 
literature,  must  realize  the  need  for  the  work 
which,  from  the  critical  and  historical  standpoints, 
takes  account  of  the  drama  during  the  past  half- 
century  and  more,  as  the  symbol  of  a  general 
movement  in  human  consciousness. 

For  this  great  spiritual  drama  of  to-day  is 
warp  and  woof  of  the  fabric  of  modem  life.  At 
the  door  of  all  our  hearts  knocks  this  new  drama 
of  pity  and  revolt.  Pity  for  the  lot  of  those  less 
favored  than  ourselves,  revolt  against  the  injus- 
tices of  the  social  order — these  sentiments  of  so- 
cial altruism  and  social  justice  animate  most 
modern  literature  and  most  modern  thinking. 
The  drama  of  our  era  has  played  a  pre-eminent 
role  in  stirring  us  to  the  assertion  of  individual 
vii 


viii  PREFATORY  NOTE 

freedom,  awaking  our  sense  of  social  obligation, 
and  holding  the  balance  true  between  our  in- 
dividual rights  and  our  social  duties. 

In  the  present  volume,  the  attempt  is  made,  on 
a  very  modest  scale,  to  discover  and  to  disclose 
the  real  contributions  of  the  modern  school  of 
dramatists.  These  are  studied  primarily  in  re- 
lation to  the  life  and  the  tliinking  of  to-day.  The 
evolution  of  form  and  tcchnic,  the  re-alignment 
of  criticism  in  regard  to  dramatic,  esthetic,  and 
ethical  values,  the  general  widening  of  outlook, 
the  enlarged  social  content,  the  appraisal  of  gen- 
uine contributions,  and  the  analysis  of  prevailing 
tendencies  in  the  drama — such,  within  definitely 
chosen  limits,  is  the  intended  scope  of  the  present 
volume.  From  this  scheme  the  poetic  drama  is 
excluded.  Because,  in  my  judgment,  the  poetic 
drama  of  the  contemporary  period,  for  all  its 
beauties  and  ingenuities,  to  which  I  have  been 
always  ready  to  pay  tribute,  embodies  no  dis- 
tinctive or  considerable  contribution  to  the  art 
or  the  practice  of  play-writing. 

Within  the  limits  set,  this  book  is  believed  to 
be  the  first  work  yet  to  appear  in  any  language 
dealing  with  the  contemporary  drama,  not  as  a 
kingdom  subdivided  between  a  dozen  leading  play- 
wrights, but  as  a  great  movement,  exhibiting  the 
evolutional  growth  of  the  human  spirit  and  the 
enlargement  of  the  domain  of  esthetics.     Perhaps 


PREFATORY  NOTE  ix 

it  may  serve,  in  a  sense,  as  a  reflection  of  tlie 
spirit  and  tendency  of  the  life  of  our  era,  which 
the  contemporary  drama  has  sought  and  still 
seeks  so  faithfully  to  interpret. 

Archibald  Henderson. 
Chapel  Hill,  N   C, 
June,  ly,  1914. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   I 

PAGE 

Deama  in  the  New  Age 3 

Modern  art — Cosmic  solidarity — Symbol  of  the 
growth  of  the  human  spirit — The  coming  of  cos- 
mopolitanism— Era  of  world  literature — The 
study  of  nature — Science  and  philosophy  the 
handmaidens  of  art — The  world  as  audience — 
Nationalism  and  internationalism — The  transit  of 
social  idealism — The  Zeitgeist  progenitor  of  mod- 
ern play — The  new  conscience — The  sophisticated 
public — Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Ihsen,  Brieux — 
The  social  awakening — Society  made  for  man — 
Society  as  tyrant — Society  as  culprit — Social 
humanitarianism — Dramatic  art  and  personal  con- 
duct— The  drama  as  social  force — Gloom  of  new 
drama — A  light  in  the  darkness — Art  and  moral- 
ity— The  spirit  of  intention — ■"  Social  predica- 
tion"— The  new  futurism. 


CHAPTER  II 

The   New   Criticism  and  the   New   Ethics      .       .      25 

The  demand  for  a  new  dramatic  criticism — 
The  disappearance  of  "  the  public  " — The  differen- 
tiation of  "the  public"  into  many  publics — 
America's  untutored  throng — Criticism  distanced 
by  creativeness — The  prolific  nature  of  art — The 
bankruptcy  of  formalism — The  "laws"  of  the 
drama — The  newer  interpretation  of  so-called 
laws — The  vital  quality  of  art — Criticism  and 
science — The  law  of  change — Change  in  outlook — 
"  The  transvaluation  of  all  values  " — Utilitarian 
and  ethical  conceptions — The  conflict  between 
ethics  and  esthetics — The  modern  view. 


xii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  III 

PAGE 

Science    and   the    New   Drama 43 

The  decay  of  "  authority  " — The  drama  a  life 
form — The  law  of  evolution — Tiic  biological  anal- 
ogy— The  personal  factor— Scientific  criticism — 
Darwin  and  De  Vries — The  drama  as  a  literary 
species — The  origin  and  evolution  of  dramatic 
species — The  phenomenon  of  survival — The  com- 
petition of  literary  species — Content  versus  form 
— Evolution,  variation,  and  mutation — "  Laws  "  as 
scientific  generalizations  from  esthetic  facts — 
The  method  of  science — The  three  tests — The  three 
unities,  with  a  cliff"erence — A  backward  glance — 
Aristotle — The  Italian  critics — Castelvetro — The 
modern  attitude — Ibsen — Real  time  and  "  ideal  " 
time — "  Esthetic  advantage  " — The  fourth  unity — 
The  creation  of  atmosphere — Maeterlinck,  Strind- 
berg,  D'Annunzio — The  practice  of  co^^temporary 
dramatists — Ibsen,  Shaw,  Giacosa,  Hauptmann, 
Galsworthy,  St.  John  Hankin — INIood  conquers 
material — The  scene  undividable — Analytic  treat- 
ment and  synthetic  treatment — The  drama  of 
recessive  action — Identification  of  action  with  ex- 
position— The  drama  of  explication — The  device 
of  "  devoilement  " — The  methods  of  fiction — The 
tyranny  of  the  past — Narration  supplants  action 
— Prophecy  versus  retrospection. 

CHAPTER   IV 

The  New  Forms — Realism  and  the  Pulpit  Stage  83 
The  new  forms — The  drama  of  immediate 
actuality — Classic  and  modern  art — The  advent 
of  Ibsen — Real  people  in  natural  situations — 
"  The  secret  of  the  literature  of  modern  times  " — 
The  bridging  of  "  the  chasm  between  the  pro- 
ducing and  the  receiving  mind  " — Fashionable 
dramatic  material  worn  out — Drama  of  ideas — 
The  psychologj^  of  the  crowd — Following  after 
strange  gods — The  new  futurism — Art  for  life's 
sake — The  methods  of  Ibsen — The  thesis-drama — 
Art  an  esthetic  process,  not  a  scientific  pro- 
cedure— The  general  idea  and  the  particular 
instance — "  Slices    of    life  " — Drama    a    stimulant 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

to  action — Induced  social  consciousness — Drama 
as  social  d}  naniic — The  social  drama — Modern 
art  redemptive  as  well  as  revelative — Galsworthy 
— The  drama  of  social  implication — The  next 
step — The  drama  of  sociologic  injunction — I'j'pes 
of  serious  drama — Tragi-comedy — Pure  social 
comedy — The  sense  of  social  obligation — ^The 
theater  and  the  church — The  new  challenge — Art 
and  morality — The  dramatist  as  interpreter  of 
life — The  dramatist  as  social  preacher — The  pulpit 
stage — The  sense  of  incrimination — The  new  social 
conscience. 

CHAPTER   V 

The      New      Forms — Naturalism     and     the     Free 

Theaters  113 

The  Theatre  Libre— Cuvier,  Taine,  Zola— The 
document  and  the  man — The  "  odor  of  the 
people  " — Science  and  naturalism — Dumas  fils — 
Augier — The  triumph  of  naturalism — Antoine — 
The  new  acting — Paris  the  theater  of  conflict — 
Zola,  Strindberg — Brieux — Germany  and  natural- 
ism—The Freie  Biihne — The  drama  of  pure  natu- 
ralism— "  Evolution  by  explosion  " — De  Vries — 
The  newer  scientific  theories  as  exemplified  in  the 
work  of  Hauptmann — The  treasure  of  the 
humble — The  miracle  of  the  commonplace — The 
supreme  defect  of  naturalism— The  dregs  of 
society — The  abnormal  and  the  degenerate  as  sub- 
jects for  art— The  great  naturalistic  dramas — 
The  passing  of  naturalism — The  changed  temper 
of  the  age — Static  characters  in  scenes  chronologi- 
cally sequent — The  contributions  of  naturalism  to 
universal  art — Science  and  art — The  intimate 
theater — "  Chamber  music  " — Two  new  dramatic 
species — Hebbel  and  the  drama  of  explication — 
The  dramatization  of  the  exposition — Ibsen  and 
A  Doll's  House — The  awalcening — The  drama  of 
discussion — Shaw  and  Brieux — The  new  dialectic 
— The  drama  of  suggestion — Maeterlinck — Poe — 
The  dramatized  short-story — The  dialogue  of  sec- 
ondary intention — The  weakening  of  action — The 
cessation  of  struggle — Era  of  experimentalism — 
Symbolic  romance. 


xiv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VI 

PAGE 

The    Battle    with    Illusions — The    Ancient   Bond- 
age AND  the  New  Freedom 145 

The  "  elastic  categories  " — The  bursting  of  the 
definitions — Aristotle's  views  of  plot,  action,  char- 
acter— His  confusion  of  thought — Hauptniann — 
Action  a  "  worthless  accident  " — Brunetiere — "  No 
conflict,  no  drama" — Conflict  not  the  diflferentiat- 
ing  characteristic  of  the  stage  play — Crisis  versus 
conflict — Invalid  distinction — Neither  crisis  nor 
conflict  indispensable — Struggle  of  human  wills 
furnisJies  most  dynamic  species  of  play — Dra- 
matic action  and  crowd  psychology — Mass  con- 
sciousness— The  errors  of  the  disciples  of  Tarde 
and  Le  Bon — The  theater  not  the  cradle  of  atavism 
— Appeal  to  universal,  not  primitive,  type — Crowd 
sense — Heightens  intensity,  without  altering  na- 
ture, of  emotion — Modern  spectator  sits  tight — 
Repression  the  keynote  of  modern  drama — Rev- 
elation of  underlying  motives — Artistic  foreshort- 
ening— Pictorial  and  plastic  attributes  of  the  play 
— The  appeal  to  the  higher  emotio  s — Drama  as 
argument — Increased  impassibility— The  conflict 
of  ideas  and  sentiments — The  battle  with  illu- 
sions— A  new  species  of  comedy — The  drama  of 
discussion — The  decadence  of  the  dramatic — The 
play — A  new  definition — Distinctive  qualities. 

CHAPTER  VII 

The  New  Technic 185 

The  tacit  acceptance  of  convention — Voluntary 
credulity — Planes  of  convention — Art  rests  upon 
convention — Illustrations  of  artistic  conventions — 
Art  diff"erent  from  reality — Style  in  dialogue — 
Style  a  function  of  ideality — The  broken  scepter 
of  verse — Artistic  efficiency — The  banishment  of 
accident — The  loss  of  finality — The  soliloquy  and 
its  modern  variants — Modern  technical  ingenuity — 
The  form  of  the  playhouse — Did  it  banish  the 
soliloquy? — The  true  explanation — Strindberg's 
suggestion — The  aside — The  apart — The  confi- 
dant— Indispensable — The  new  alternatives — The 
raisonnevr  or  expositor — The  note  of  imparti- 
ality— The  modern  tendency. 


CONTENTS  XV 

CHAPTER  VIII 

PAGE 

The  Play  and  the  Reader 221 

The  publication  of  plays — The  changed  atti- 
tude— Twenty  years  ago  and  now — Literature  and 
the  drama — The  Drama  League  of  America — The 
old  scenic  chirography — The  jargon  of  the  stage — 
Ibsen  and  naturalness — Approximation  to  real- 
ity— Stage  directions  with  the  stage  left  out — 
Increased  particularity — Character  description — 
Thumb-nail  sketches — Art  versus  specifications — 
Hauptmann,  Schnitzler,  Bahr,  Pinero,  D'Annunzio 
— Wilde  and  the  artistic  sense — The  fault  of  the 
personal — Bernard  Shaw — A  master  of  the  new 
technic — Complete  visualization  of  the  stage — The 
barrier  of  the  actor — Stage  directions  as  social 
essays — Imperfect  objectivity — The  ideal  specta- 
tor— A  new  interpretation — Stereoscopic  imagina- 
tion— The  mutual  reaction  between  artist  and 
public — The  resulting  elevation  of  standards — 
Refinement  in  taste. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  New  Content 253 

The  drama  an  image  of  the  epoch — Every-day 
life  accepted  as  normal  dramatic  material — The 
ancient  view — The  aristocracy  of  classic  tragedy — 
Great  events  associated  with  personages  of  lofty 
station — Aristotle — Puttenham — Shakespeare — The 
poet  of  courts  and  princes — Indifference  to  social 
status  of  working  classes — George  Lillo — The  pro- 
genitor of  the  bourgeois  drama — Lessing — 
Schiller — The  development  of  class  consciousness — 
France — Voltaire — Larmoyant  comedy — Diderot — 
Mercier — Sedaine — Miss  Sara  Sampson — Hebbel, 
the  forerunner — Partial  envisagement  of  true  do- 
mestic drama — Hauptmann — Ibsen — B  j  ornson — 
"Scenes  from  private  life" — The  secrets  of  the 
alcove — Influence  of  modern  fiction — The  subur- 
ban note — Fresh  air — The  true  drama  of  middle- 
class  life — The  decadence  of  romance — A  trans- 
valuation  of  values — The  degeneration  of  the 
hero — The  triumph  of  democracy — The  dominance 
of    the    heroine — The    bankruptcy    of    stage    he- 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

roism — The  age  of  prose — The  microscope  versus 
the  telescope — The  development  of  mass  conscious- 
ness— The  new  hero — The  crowd — The  ideal  as 
hero — Atmosphere,  environment,  supplant  the 
hero — "Scientific  natural  history" — roetic  jus- 
tice— Plato — Aristotle — Elizabethan  practice — The 
long  conflict — The  new  sense  of  justice — Tlie  loss 
of  faith  in  intentional  justice — Nature  has  no 
systems  of  morality — Justice  achieved  through 
humanity. 

CHAPTER   X 

The  Newer  Tendencies 291 

The  new  age — Evolution  in  form — Revolution 
in  spirit— Drama  as  synthesis  of  all  tlie  arts — 
Castelvetro — Croce — A  new  revelation — Genius  and 
taste — The  drama  as  criticism — The  economic  ten- 
dencj' — Science  versus  creativeness — The  drama 
conditioned,  not  determined,  by  accessories — The 
historical  view — The  dramatist  and  physical  limita- 
tion— The  materialistic  influence — The  new  dis- 
covery^ — Constructive  synthesis  of  the  arts — The 
co-operation  of  theater  and  drama — Totality  of 
effect— Art  and  nature — The  new  experimental- 
ism — Stimmung — Tlie  rise  of  the  re(/!sseitr — The 
art  of  Stage  management — The  prophecy  of  sym- 
bolic poetry — The  organization  of  the  theatre — 
Repertory — Types  of  audience— The  Drama 
League  of  America  again — Democracy  and  the 
drama — The  drama  as  a  social  institution — The 
drama  and  the  state — Summary. 


THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 


"  The  critic  will  be  a  small  genius,  the  artist  a  great 
genius;  the  one  will  have  the  strength  of  ten,  the  other  of 
a  hundred;  the  former,  in  order  to  raise  himself  to  the  alti- 
tude of  the  latter,  will  have  need  of  his  assistance;  but  the 
nature  of  both  must  be  the  same.  In  order  to  judge  Dante, 
we  must  raise  ourselves  to  his  level:  let  it  be  well  under- 
stood that  empirically  we  are  not  Dante,  nor  Dante  we;  but 
in  that  moment  of  judgment  and  contemplation,  our  spirit 
is  one  with  that  of  the  poet,  and  in  that  moment  we  and  he 
are  one  single  thing.  In  this  identity  alone  resides  the  pos- 
sibility that  our  little  souls  can  unite  with  the  great  souls, 
and  become  great  with  them,  in  the  universality  of  the 
spirit." — ^Benedetto  Cboce. 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE 


"  What  is  the  problem  of  culture  ?  To  live  and  to 
work  in  the  noblest  strivings  of  one's  nation  and  of 
humanity.  Not  only,  therefore,  to  receive  and  to  learn, 
but  to  live.  To  free  one's  age  and  people  from  wrong 
tendencies,  to  have  one's  ideal  before  one's  eyes." — Fried- 
BicH  Nietzsche. 

"Art  knows  the  true  ideal  of  our  times,  and  tends 
towards  it." — Lyof  Tolstoy. 


The  contemplation  of  any  period  of  human 
activity  at  first  sight  reveals  a  vast  network  of 
intersecting  interests.  We  observe  a  web  inter- 
woven with  apparently  independent  threads  of 
ideas  and  passions,  of  ideals  and  sentiments. 
This  is  especially  the  case  in  the  domain  of  es- 
thetics, where  evolutionary  process  is  continually 
retarded,  arrested,  or  accelerated  by  the  pristine 
energy  of  the  human  factor.  Every  artist  im- 
parts the  illusion  of  individuality.  The  ego,  con- 
ditioned by  race,  place,  and  moment,  seems  to 
operate  within  the  prescribed  circle  of  his  imme- 
diate limitation.  Yet  viewed  in  historical  per- 
spective, the  work  of  art  inevitably  falls  into  defi- 
nite position  in  the  creation  of  the  cosmic  pattern 
of  world  literature.     The  tragi-comedy  of  Ibsen, 

3 


4  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  symbolist  drama  of  INIaeterlinck,  the  sociologic 
comedy  of  Shaw,  the  motionless  pictures  of  Tchek- 
hov,  the  lyric  romances  of  D'Annunzio,  the  thesis- 
melodramas  of  Echegaray,  the  temperamental 
comediettas  of  Schnitzler,  significant  as  illustra- 
tions, co-operate  in  bodying  forth  the  variegated 
design  of  the  contemporary  drama. 

A  work  of  literary  criticism  is  a  true  work  of 
art  only  on  the  condition  that  it  disclose  in  full 
illumination  the  guiding  and  shaping  principles 
which  express  the  true  spiritual  meaning  of  the 
epoch.  Beneath  the  welter  and  confusion  of  con- 
flicting and  apparently  dissociate  literary  phe- 
nomena, criticism  must  reveal  the  life  forces  puls- 
ing through  the  literature  of  to-day.  Only  thus 
may  the  critic  render  intelligible  and  coherent 
the  contemporary  epoch  in  human  consciousness. 
Only  thus  may  the  critic  truly  appraise  literature 
as  an  organic  expression  of  the  growth  of  the 
human  spirit. 

A  critical  survey  of  the  literature  of  the  past 
three-quarters  of  a  century  or  less  projects  into 
the  light  the  vast  debt  that  literature  viewed  as 
a  factor  in  national  culture  and  world  civilization 
owes  to  science  and  the  doctrine  of  evolution.  To 
give  precision  to  our  ideas,  let  us  especially  direct 
our  attention  to  the  contemporary  drama,  that 
branch  of  literature  which  is  the  subject  of  our 
inquiry.     In  the  world  of  industry,  the  barriers 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  5 

have  fallen  one  by  one  beneath  the  patient,  per- 
sistent blows  of  science,  of  invention,  of  discovery. 
'Twas  but  yesterday  that  the  American  awoke 
with  a  start  to  discover  the  disappearance  of  the 
frontier.  Civilization  had  pushed  on  to  the  far- 
thest verge.  The  marvel  of  the  Atlantic  cable 
pales  before  the  miracle  of  wireless  telegraphy. 
A  vast  shudder  shook  England  when  a  Frenchman 
obliterated  with  his  aeroplane  the  ancient  barrier 
of  the  Channel.  The  imaginative  fancy  of  Jules 
Verne  is  dwarfed  by  the  actual  achievements 
in  world  circumnavigation  of  this  very  hour. 
Through  the  transforming  magic  of  science,  the 
nations  of  the  world  stand  in  perpetual  inter- 
communication. Customs,  costumes,  habits  of 
thought,  modes  of  expression,  once  peculiar  to 
locality  and  to  nationality,  are  rapidly  becoming 
world  property.  Cosmic  solidarity  is  one  of  the 
supreme  facts,  the  fertile  contributions  of  the 
epoch.  Only  industry  and  research  have  fully 
realized  this  accomplishment.  Trade  is  bounded 
only  by  the  limitation  of  the  globe.  Science  pro- 
gresses unhaltingly,  enlarging  the  domain  of 
knowledge  through  the  simultaneous  scientific 
contributions  of  research  everywhere. 

The  scientist,  be  he  mathematician,  chemist, 
physicist,  biologist,  geologist,  fixes  his  attention 
endlessly  upon  a  single  subject.  That  one  sublime 
subject,  upon  which  the  eyes  of  science  are  fixed. 


6  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

is  Nature.  This  cosmic  example,  as  well  as  the 
means  for  applying  its  lessons  to  other  fields,  is 
the  example  which  science  now  sets  literature. 
The  artist  in  all  ages  has  striven  to  express  and 
reveal  the  soul  of  the  individual.  Within  our 
epoch,  the  new  spirit  of  science  has  breathed  into 
the  body  of  the  artist  the  breath  of  the  world's 
life.  Art  and  literature  are  beginning  to  speak 
with  the  international  mind,  the  cosmopolitan 
soul.  We  feel  in  the  air  that  "•  epoch  of  world 
literature  "  which  Goethe  heralded  and  summoned. 
Nationality  has  not  lost  its  meaning.  The  artist 
still  recognizes  that  the  more  completely  he  realizes 
the  national  soul  in  literature  the  more  surely 
will  his  work  cross  national  frontiers.  At  the 
same  time,,  science  has  taught  the  artist  that  a 
consciousness  of  the  feelings  common  to  the  citi- 
zens of  civilized  nations  is  more  potent  in  winning 
the  widest  hearing  and  in  attaining  the  most  last- 
ing repute  than  a  consciousness  simply  of  the 
feelings  peculiar  to  his  fellow-countrymen.  Slowly 
precipitating  everywhere,  in  the  retort  of  con- 
temporary life,  is  a  basic  substance  of  cosmopoli- 
tan culture,  ideas,  and  inclinations. 

Contemporary  literature  is  unique  in  one  dif- 
ferentiating feature.  The  world  author  during 
his  own  lifetime  has  actually  attained  the  hearing 
of  a  world  audience.  Nay  more,  he  has  but  to 
speak  in  the  accents  of  genius  and  the  words  echo 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  7 

from  the  remotest  fastnesses  of  the  world.  The 
genial  humanity  of  a  Mark  Twain's  good  humor 
is  reflected  in  countless  tongues,  even  in  the  dia- 
lect of  the  savage.  The  trumpet  challenge  of  a 
Rudyard  Kipling  resounds  through  the  bounds  of 
civilization.  The  bon  mots  of  a  Bernard  Shaw 
are  immediately  caught  up  and  repeated  in  New 
York  and  Berlin,  Paris  and  St.  Petersburg.  The 
philosopher  who  is  perchance  an  artist  as  well,  a 
Friedrich  Nietzsche,  a  William  James,  or  a  Henri 
Bergson,  gives  cosmopolitan  vogue  to  his  theories 
and  discoveries,  and  enriches  the  thinking  of  to- 
day with  the  terminology  and  concept  of  the 
Superman,  of  Pragmatism,  and  of  Creative  Evolu- 
tion. A  Henrik  Ibsen,  isolate,  cloistral,  moves 
forward  for  all  people  the  boundary  posts  of  the 
world's  drama.  A  Lyof  Tolstoy  austerely  con- 
demns the  classics  of  the  world,  even  his  own ;  and 
points  to  the  future  in  his  formulation  of  a  new 
meaning  for  art.  A  Richard  Wagner  prophesies 
the  new  art  of  a  new  social  order,  in  which  the 
"  art  work  of  the  future  "  shall  be  the  expression 
of  the  collective  energy  of  a  whole  age,  enlight- 
ened, individually,  socially,  morally. 

It  is  no  longer  possible  to  speak  with  the  same 
significance,  as  formerly,  of  English  literature  or 
French  literature  or  Scandinavian  literature. 
Their  one-time  individuality  is  modified  through 
elements  common  to  all.     Criticism  itself,  since 


8  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Tainc,  has  become  scientific — and  so,  cosmo- 
politan— in  its  aspect.  The  work  of  Strindberg 
stirs  Paris ;  Sudermann  wrings  tears  from  Chi- 
cago ;  Shaw  ravishes  Berlin  with  his  mocking 
laughter;  Brieux  confounds  New  York  with  his 
unashamed  social  antiseptics.  Criticism  frankly 
accepts  these  phenomena  as  typical  of  the  new 
spirit.  It  is  not  that  the  artist  loses  his  individu- 
ality, his  sense  of  race,  his  consciousness  of  en- 
vironment. These  things  have  always  been  felt  by 
the  artist,  more  or  less  keenly,  in  all  ages.  There 
is,  however,  in  this  modern  air  that  the  artist 
breathes,  something  which  imparts  a  more  poign- 
ant sensitiveness  to  the  pressure  of  the  force  of 
solidarity.  Even  in  such  a  matter  as  technic,  the 
artist  realizes  to-day  as  never  before  the  impera- 
tive obligation  to  measure  up  to  the  most  ad- 
vanced demands  of  architectonics,  of  drama- 
turgies. Culture  is  coming  to  mean,  not  merely 
the  enlargement  of  the  actual  domain  of  knowl- 
edge, but,  what  is  perhaps  no  less  important  in 
the  advancement  of  civilization,  universal  diffusion 
of  knowledge  of  all  great  intellectual  and  spiritual 
phenomena. 

The  dramatist  must  run  the  gauntlet  of  merci- 
less inspection  and  criticism  at  the  hands  of  his 
fellow-craftsmen.  Furthermore,  with  a  public 
ever  attaining  to  higher  levels  of  sophistication 
and    developing   more    rigorous    canons    of   taste 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  9 

through  contact  with  the  best  representative  ex- 
amples afforded  by  other  nationalities,  the  dra- 
matist of  to-day  must  possess  not  only  wide  knowl- 
edge of  his  art,  but  astute  mastery  of  its  technic. 
Above  all,  with  a  knowledge  of  human  nature 
more  circumstantial,  more  minute,  than  ever  be- 
fore— a  knowledge  contributed  perhaps  not  less 
by  science  than  by  psychology,  philosophy,  or 
literature — the  contemporary  auditor  is  quick  to 
seize,  quick  to  condemn,  a  lapse  on  the  part  of 
the  dramatic  artist  from  the  fundamental  verities 
— the  insuperable  maxima,  the  irreducible  minima 
— of  human  experience  and  potentiality.  The 
dramatic  artists  of  to-day,  of  all  races  and  all 
climes,  have  a  sense  of  common  purpose,  a  certain 
unity  of  aim.  This  may  best  be  described  as  the 
intention  of  advancing  the  cause  of  civilization. 

It  is  just  at  this  moment  that  our  eyes  are^ 
opened  to  the  inner  significance  of  this  discovery. 
The  ancient  Greeks  realized  that  man  was  a  po- 
litical animal.  The  France  of  Moliere  realized 
that  man  was  a  social  animal.  The  limitation  of 
Moliere — a  limitation  which  sometimes  his  genius 
enabled  him  to  transcend — was  inherent  in  his 
reverence  for  society.  It  was  not  the  structure  of 
society  itself  which  was  at  fault,  in  Moliere's 
view.  It  was  man  who,  in  violating  the  laws  of 
society,  originated  his  own  tragedy,  his  own  ruin. 
Moliere  teaches  man  the  ancient  lesson  that  he 


10  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

must  not  violate  the  fundamental  principles  of 
life  and  that  his  most  urgent  need  is  to  conform 
to  nature.  The  guiding  principle  back  of  this 
human,  this  humane  sentiment,  is  the  social  prin- 
ciple that  society's  claims  must  never  be  ignored. 
Man  was  not  made  for  laws,  conventions,  morals, 
inhibitions  of  a  thousand  varieties.  These  laws, 
conventions,  morals,  inhibitions  were  made  for 
man.  Indeed,  they  were  made  in  the  interest  of 
an  artificial  complex,  perpetually  in  a  state  of  flux 
and  evolution,  which  we  call  society. 

In  a  certain  sense,  there  is  just  ground  for  the 
modern  man's  dissatisfaction  with  Shakespeare 
and  his  conception  of  the  world.  For  Olympian 
that  he  was,  Shakespeare  was  assuredly  not  what 
we  are  accustomed  to  call  a  social  philosopher. 
Before  sociology,  Shakespeare  was.  His  is  a 
drama  of  supermen  and  superwomen;  they  move 
in  grand  silhouette  against  the  sky-line  of  the  uni- 
verse. His  heroes  and  heroines  come  nobly  to  the 
grapple  with  that  force  or  power  which  is  labeled 
Fate,  Destiny,  Providence,  or  the  Divine  Order. 
His  dramas  present  the  clash  of  the  supreme 
struggle — Man  at  odds  with  the  Universe.  It  may 
be  admitted  by  the  modern  critic  that  Shakespeare 
created,  in  his  dramatic  hero,  a  more  valid,  a  more 
credible  superman  than  was  ever  previsaged  in  the 
convolute  brain  of  a  Nietzsche.  The  Shake- 
spearean tragedy  is  a  personal  tragedy.    We  feel 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  11 

both  pity  and  terror  in  these  spectacles  of  the 
disintegration  of  moral,  the  bankruptcy  of  char- 
acter, the  degeneration  of  will,  the  atrophy  of 
conscience,  the  obsession  of  sexuality.  In  Shake- 
speare's conception  of  the  tragic  we  discern  a 
revolutionary  sense  of  protest  against  the  moral 
order  of  the  universe.  We  are  darkly  aware  of 
the  delicate  balancing  of  the  divine  scales  in  the 
passing  of  judgment  upon  a  universe  dense- 
packed  with  cruelty,  hatred,  injustice,  failure. 

In  both  Shakespeare  and  Moliere  there  is  lack- 
ing that  differentiating  quality  which  character- 
izes the  dramatist  of  the  contemporary  era.  With 
all  his  passionate  sense  of  revolt  against  the 
tragic  cast  of  the  universal  life,  Shakespeare 
lacked  any  ingrained  conviction  of  social  organiza- 
tion as  a  giant  participant  in  the  tragedy  of 
human  destiny.  With  all  his  shrewd  and  saga- 
cious exposure  of  folly,  fraud,  imposture,  quack- 
ery, and  personal  hypocrisies,  Moliere  never  once 
bethought  him  of  the  crimes  committed  by  society 
in  the  name  of  humanity.  Whilst  it  may  be  urged 
with  considerable  justice  that  Shakespeare  was 
no  mere  court  sycophant,  certainly  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  he  was  totally  lacking  in  sympathy 
for  the  lot  of  the  common  man.  With  all  his 
wit  and  raillery  at  the  fantastic  creatures  of 
French  social  life,  MoHere  exhibited  deep-dyed 
racial  respect  for  society,  its  interests,  its  laws, 


12  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

its  obligations.  The  era  of  social  democracy 
was  not  yet.  But  it  was  inevitable  in  the  course 
of  civilization  that  a  day  must  dawn  upon  a  world 
grown  sick  of  the  individual,  the  confessor,  the 
autobiographer.  With  that  day  came  the  philos- 
ophy of  sociology.  To-day  the  world  is  envisaged 
in  social  guise  as  a  vast  structure  of  social  laws, 
formulas,  traditions,  erected  by  man  in  his  own 
interest  for  the  sake  of  the  State,  the  Family, 
the  Race. 

The  great  discovery  of  modern  life,  the  most 
potent  influence  which  thus  far  has  projected  it- 
self into  contemporary  consciousness,  is  the  dawn- 
ing suspicion,  gradually  solidified  into  belief  and 
fortified  into  conviction,  that  society  has  become 
the  tyrant  of  the  universe.  Error  is  imperfect 
knowledge.  In  the  equation  of  truth  certain  indis- 
pensable factors  are  missing.  Crime  is  not  solely 
a  religious  or  moral  question.  It  is  a  social  ques- 
tion. Indeed,  crime  may  be  defined  as  the  product 
of  imperfect  social  knowledge.  In  the  equation 
of  conduct  certain  indispensable  social  factors  are 
missing.  Not  crime  only,  but  the  petty  annoy- 
ances, the  grave  injustices,  the  hideous  inconsist- 
encies of  life,  must  be  laid  at  the  door,  not  of  the 
individual  man,  but  of  our  social  institutions. 

The  real  progenitor  of  the  plays  of  the  modern 
era  is  not  an  individual,  but  the  Zeitgeist. 
Thoughts  which  have  been  in  the  air,  sentiments, 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  13 

passions,  predilections,  emanating  from  advanced 
individuals  with  enlightened  social  consciences,  be- 
come gradually  disseminated,  and  slowly  diffuse 
themselves  throughout  the  world.  Many  think- 
ers, many  idealists  are  responsible  for  the  con- 
temporary era.  But  there  are  four  figures  with 
accusing  faces  which  emerge  above  the  crowd  of 
witnesses.  Les  Miserahles  was  the  first  great 
beacon  of  fiction  to  light  the  path  of  the  broken 
outcasts  of  society.  George  Eliot,  positivist, 
sociologist  in  fiction,  assisted  in  laying  the  founda- 
tions of  this  new  fiction  of  tendency,  the  novel 
with  a  purpose — reformative,  humanitarian  pur- 
pose. Such  fiction  is  popular  in  the  original,  un- 
defiled  sense — democratic — "  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  for  the  people."  This  social  fiction  laid 
down  as  its  first  principle  an  enlightened  concep- 
tion of  social  duties,  social  obligations,  and  human 
brotherhood.  The  author  of  Anna  Karenina  it 
was  who  said :  "  However  differently  in  form  peo- 
ple belonging  to  our  Christian  world  may  define 
the  destiny  of  man ;  whether  they  see  it  in  human 
progress  in  whatever  sense  of  the  words,  in  the 
union  of  all  men  in  a  socialistic  realm,  or  in  the 
establishment  of  a  commune;  whether  they  look 
forward  to  the  union  of  mankind  under  the  guid- 
ance of  one  universal  church,  or  to  the  federation 
of  the  world, — however  various  in  form  their  defi- 
nitions of  the  destination  of  human  life  may  be,  all 


14  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

men  in  our  times  already  admit  that  the  highest 
well-being  attainable  by  man  is  to  be  reached 
by  their  union  with  one  another."  As  early  as 
1860,  Henrik  Ibsen,  yet  to  write  his  monumental 
series  of  social  dramas,  was  pointing  out  to  the 
Norwegian  government  the  educative  influence  of 
the  drama.  "  The  experience  of  all  countries," 
he  said,  "  has  sufficiently  established  the  fact  that 
dramatic  art,  in  every  age  in  which  it  has  been 
cultivated,  has,  in  a  higher  degree  than  any  other, 
shown  itself  an  important  factor  in  the  education 
of  the  people — a  very  obvious  explanation  of 
which  fact  is  to  be  found  in  the  drama's  more 
intimate  and  direct  relation  to  reality;  in  other 
words,  in  its  greater  intelligibility  and  in  its 
easier  and  more  general  accessibility  to  the  whole 
people."  Twenty  years  later  he  was  writing  these 
pregnant  words :  "  A  man  shares  the  responsi- 
bihty  and  the  guilt  of  the  society  to  which  he 
belongs.    Hence  I  once  wrote: 

"  To   live — is   to   war   with  fiends 

That  infest  the  brain  and  the  heart; 
To  write — is  to  summon  one's  self. 
And  play  the  judge's  part." 

In  the  expression  of  such  a  view  do  we  find  a 
clue  to  the  artistic  revolution  in  the  drama  of 
our  own  day.  To  share  the  responsibility  and  the 
guilt  of  society  is,  at  a  single  step,  to  arrive  at 
the   realization   that   society   is    the   culprit.     A 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  15 

Shakespeare  maintains  that  the  fault  is  in  us  that 
we  are  underlings.  An  Ibsen  asserts  that  the  fault 
is  in  society.  The  most  acute  and  enlightened 
intelligences  of  our  period  have  devoted  themselves 
to  the  demonstration  of  the  fact  that  our  social 
institutions  are  in  the  wrong.  That  is  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  to  convict  mankind  of  social 
wrong-doing  for  which  he  himself  is  responsible. 
Social  institutions  are  the  work  of  man;  and 
upon  man  falls  the  responsibility  for  their  imper- 
fect and  wrongful  workings,  the  injustices  they 
foster,  the  social  inequalities  they  create.  The 
prime  function  of  the  dramatist  of  to-day  is  to 
bring  man  to  a  consciousness  of  his  responsibility 
and  to  incite  him  to  constructive  measures  for 
social  reform. 

It  is  incontestable  that  Moliere  was  a  social 
critic — in  a  sense.  But  certainly  Moliere  was  not 
a  social  critic  in  the  sense  in  which  the  term  is 
employed  to-day.  Moliere's  definition  of  comedy, 
in  his  preface  to  Tartuffe,  is  definitive  in 
its  exposition  of  Moliere:  "A  comedy  is  nothing 
more  than  an  ingenious  poem  which,  by  agreeable 
lessons,  takes  man  to  task  for  his  defects." 
Comedy  then,  as  Moliere  saw  it,  was  an  ironic 
mode  of  education  and  castigation  of  humanity 
for  man's  defects  as  an  individual,  even  as  an 
individual  in  society.  The  contemporary  dra- 
matist considers  the  drama  an  instrumentality  for 


16  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

showing  man,  whether  by  pleasant  or  unpleasant 
means,  his  fault  as  moral  being,  as  social  creature, 
as  guilty  partner  in  the  defective  business  of 
modern  social  organization. 

Such  a  conception  brings  us  at  once  into  sharp 
conflict  with  Moliere's  doctrine  that  the  funda- 
mental purpose  of  every  work  of  art,  the  rule  of  all 
rules,  is  to  please.  The  lesson  of  Tolstoy,  of 
Dostoievsky,  of  Hugo,  of  Dumas  fils,  of  George 
Eliot,  Dickens,  Ruskin,  is  that  the  work  of  art  is 
moral  in  its  essence  and  has  for  its  fundamental 
purpose  not  pleasure,  but  edification,  purification, 
social  enlightenment.  Such  a  conception  auto- 
matically imparts  to  art  a  specifically  moral  and 
ethical  basis.  Emerson  even  goes  so  far  as  to  aver 
that  every  fact  has  a  two-fold  appeal:  to  sensa- 
tion on  the  one  side,  to  morality  on  the  other. 
Infinitely  magnified  is  this  appeal  in  the  case  of 
the  drama,  in  which  facts,  carefully  selected  from 
the  welter  of  life's  purposelessness,  are  integrated 
by  the  playwright  into  a  work  of  art.  "  Fine 
art,"  says  so  astute  a  critic  of  the  drama  as 
Bernard  Shaw,  "  is  the  subtlest,  the  most  seduc- 
tive, the  most  effective  means  of  moral  propa- 
gandism  in  the  world,  excepting  only  the  example 
of  personal  conduct ;  and  I  waive  even  this  excep- 
tion in  favor  of  the  art  of  the  stage,  because  it 
works  by  exhibiting  examples  of  personal  conduct 
made  intelligible  and  moving  to  crowds  of  unob- 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  17 

servant,  unreflecting  people  to  whom  real  life 
means  nothing."  Oscar  Wilde's  most  original  con- 
tribution to  criticism  was  the  theory  that  life 
imitates  art.  And  surely  comparison  of  the  wan- 
ing influence  of  the  church  with  the  waxing  influ- 
ence of  the  theater  as  a  guide  to  conduct  is  a 
conspicuous  verification  of  Wilde's  suggestive 
theory.  Miss  Jane  Addams,  who  speaks  with 
exact  knowledge  of  the  inner  springs  of  conduct 
among  certain  social  classes,  has  recently  said: 
"  In  moments  of  moral  crisis  now  the  great 
theater-going  public  turns  to  the  sayings  of  the 
hero  who  found  himself  in  a  similar  plight.  The 
sayings  may  not  be  profound,  but  they  are  at 
least  applicable  to  conduct."  Indeed,  we  may 
go  even  further  and  assert  that  people  of  all 
classes,  in  moments  of  emotional  stress,  often  un- 
consciously reproduce  the  expressions  which  they 
have  heard  their  favorite  heroes,  heroines,  or  even 
villains  utter  in  like  situations.  Only  a  genius 
in  the  simple  expression  of  elemental  feeling,  when 
confronted  by  a  crucial  situation,  is  capable  of 
giving  voice  to  his  natural  feelings  as  if  he  had 
never  witnessed  a  work  of  dramatic  or  Active  art. 
Even  a  large  proportion  of  cultivated  people, 
unconsciously  imitative,  follow  in  expression  the 
line  of  art.  Conduct  is  often  conditioned,  even 
determined,  more  by  the  expression  we  give  to 
our  feelings  than  by  the  moral  or  religious  influ- 


18  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ences  which  are  presumed  to  give  rise  to   these 
feelings. 

The  art  of  Ibsen  and  his  followers  has  thrown 
open  the  doors  to  a  new  domain.  This  is  the 
domain  of  social  ethics.  There  is  much  that  is 
sinister  and  dour  in  this  new  literature — with  the 
attention  perpetually  fixed  upon  social  evil  and 
social  tragedy.  At  times  one  revolts  against  the 
persistent  depression  of  its  tone — the  horrors  of 
heredity,  the  stigma  of  degeneracy,  the  decadence 
of  morals,  the  conspiracy  of  social  malfeasance. 
Despite  this  depressing  influence,  the  moral  basis 
of  such  works  is  a  certain  incorrigible  optimism,  a 
hopefulness  which  shines  forth  like  a  ray  of  light 
athwart  the  gloom.  For  morality,  whether  per- 
sonal or  social,  has  at  the  back  of  it  an  optimistic 
urge.  A  challenge  to  reformation  is  there.  For 
morality  is  ever  forward-looking,  and  presupposes 
conscious  exertion  toward  remedial  and  reforma- 
tory measures. 

Art  is  the  fortunate  synthesis  of  form  and 
spirit,  of  style  and  moral  purpose.  The  modern 
artist  does  homage,  with  George  Eliot,  not  only 
to  "  the  divine  perfection  of  form,"  but  also  to 
"  the  secrets  of  a  profound  social  sympathy." 
For  he  sees  in  his  art  work  a  means  of  improving 
the  prevailing  order  of  the  world.  Art  becomes 
the  means  of  evoking  the  social  consciousness  and 
awaking   the   social    conscience.     "  It    cannot   be 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  19 

denied,"  says  Brunetiere,  "  that  La  Femme  de 
Claude  or  An  Enemy  of  the  People  is  a  true 
drama,  nor  that  there  are  few  novels  superior  to 
Anna  Karenina.  They  constitute  the  proof  that 
neither  the  theater  nor  the  novel  is  incapable  of 
handling  social  questions.  There  is  requisite  for 
the  task  simply  more  talent  and  greater  art. 
Whoever  has  the  very  high  ambition  of  treating 
social  questions  in  the  theater  or  in  the  novel 
need  only  bring  to  it,  with  the  entire  control  of 
the  materials  of  his  craft,  a  personal  experience, 
a  detailed  experience,  a  carefully  reasoned  ex- 
perience, of  life.  The  number  of  literators  thereby 
will  be  diminished,  but  the  dignity  of  literature 
will  be  by  just  so  much  enhanced,  and  even  still 
more  the  effectiveness  of  its  influence." 

We  shall  acquire  no  true  comprehension  of  the 
dramatic  art  of  our  own  time  if  we  do  not  take 
into  account  these  three  persistent  streams  of 
tendency  in  contemporary  thinking.  The  phe- 
nomenon of  cosmopolitanism,  first  and  foremost, 
confronts  one  upon  every  turn,  and  makes  in- 
creasingly evident  the  broadened  and  heightened 
standards  to  which  the  contemporary  artist  must 
attain.  "  The  man  who  expects  to  rise  above 
mediocrity  in  this  age,"  observes  that  spiritual 
critic,  Francis  Grierson,  "  must  not  only  become 
familiar  with  the  characteristics  of  his  own  peo- 
ple, but  he  must  acquaint  himself  with  the  virtues 


20  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

and  vanities  of  other  nations  in  order  to  wear  off 
the  provincial  veneer  which  adheres  to  all  individ- 
uals without  practical  experience,  and  mocks  one 
in  a  too  conscious  security  of  contentment  and 
indifference."  The  growth  of  cosmopolitanism, 
the  centripetal  force,  has  been  balanced  with  cun- 
ning economy  by  means  of  a  steadily  increasing 
sense  of  nationality,  the  centrifugal  force  in  mod- 
ern culture.  There  is  a  marked  similarity,  often 
identity  of  form  in  the  dramas  of  men  and  women 
of  different  nationalities.  The  variety  and  ver- 
satility they  display  finds  its  inspiration  in  the 
national  spirit.  Ibsen  attained  spiritual  freedom 
in  the  atmosphere  of  Rome,  Dresden,  and  Berlin; 
but  the  Norwegian  spirit,  the  national  impulse, 
beats  like  a  heart  at  the  center  of  his  art  work. 
Strindberg,  a  very  Bohemian  in  his  cosmopolitan- 
ism, continually  exhibits  the  character,  the  out- 
look upon  life,  of  the  Swede.  I  have  seen  The 
Doctor's  Dilemma  delight  the  cosmopolitan  audi- 
ence of  the  Deutsches  Theater  in  Berlin;  but  it 
was  Celtic  extravagance,  Irish  wit,  which  gave  it 
verve  and  carrying  power.  Anatol  titillates  the 
sophisticated  palates  of  New  York  and  London ; 
yet  we  realize  that  such  sprightly  raillery,  such 
erotic  melancholy,  could  emerge  only  from  the 
fashionable  purlieus  of  Vienna.  The  Great  Divide 
sounds  the  note  of  universal  passion  and  restraint ; 
yet  it  vibrates  with  the  barbaric  energy  and  Puri- 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  21 

tan  conscientiousness  of  America.  Constructed 
upon  like  models,  technically  similar,  the  dramas 
of  to-day  exhibit  striking  dissimilarities  due  not 
only  to  differences  of  personal  temperament,  but 
also  to  racial  and  national  distinctions  in  spirit. 
Along  with  this  diffusion  of  the  international 
spirit,  this  intensification  of  national  characteris- 
tics, has  proceeded  the  second  current  of  influence. 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  social  and  humanitarian 
ideals,  the  literature  of  to-day  has  become  sur- 
charged with  intention.  The  man  of  letters, 
turned  publicist,  has  become  animated  by  a  spirit 
of  service  in  behalf  of  society,  of  the  present  and 
of  the  future.  This  may  be  interpreted,  in  esthet- 
ics, as  a  reaction  from  the  doctrine  of  "  art  for 
art's  sake."  Such  a  doctrine  was  essentially  the 
doctrine  of  the  painter,  the  creator  of  those  works 
of  art  least  susceptible  of  moral  intention.  Baude- 
laire maintained  that  "  no  poem  will  be  so  great, 
so  noble,  so  truly  worthy  of  the  name  of  a  poem, 
as  that  which  has  been  written  solely  for  the 
pleasure  of  writing  a  poem."  Whistler  airily  dis- 
placed the  noble  muse  in  favor  of  a  "  tricksy 
jade";  and  Oscar  Wilde  nonchalantly  asserted: 
"  All  art  is  quite  useless."  Flaubert  went  so  far 
as  to  inquire  if  a  book,  "  irrespective  of  what  it 
says,"  might  not  possess  sovereign  beauty.  To 
George  Sand,  rather  than  to  Ibsen,  are  we  in- 
debted for  the  modern  revolt  against  the  doctrine 


S2  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

of  art  for  art's  sake.  "  I  am  aware,"  she  writes 
to  Flaubert,  "  that  you  are  opposed  to  the  exposi- 
tion of  personal  doctrine  in  literature.  Are  you 
right?  Does  not  your  opposition  proceed  rather 
from  a  want  of  conviction  than  from  a  principle 
of  esthetics?  If  we  have  any  philosophy  in  our 
brain  it  must  needs  break  forth  in  our  writ- 
ings."  .    .    . 

Ibsen,  with  not  wholly  credible  naivete,  ex- 
pressed his  surprise  that  he  himself,  "  who  had 
made  it  his  life-task  to  depict  human  characters 
and  destinies,  should,  without  conscious  or  direct 
intention,  have  arrived  in  several  matters  at  the 
same  conclusions  as  the  social-democratic  philoso- 
phers had  arrived  at  by  scientific  processes."  Al- 
though Ibsen  takes  care  to  disclaim  "  conscious  or 
direct  intention,"  the  whole  series  of  his  social 
dramas  belies  the  statement.  Preferring  to  be 
regarded  as  poet  rather  than  as  philosopher,  Ibsen 
nevertheless  shares  with  Tolstoy  the  doctrine  that 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  artist  to  seek  to  improve  the 
prevailing  order  of  the  world.  The  philosophy, 
the  social  philosophy,  in  the  brain  of  the  modern 
dramatists  has  assuredly  "  broken  forth  in  their 
writings."  And  to-day  we  confront  an  epoch  in 
art  devoted  to  the  task  of  holding  up  the  mirror 
to  society,  exposing  social  abuse,  and  inspiring 
efforts  towards  the  improvement  of  the  existent 
social  order. 


DRAMA  IN  THE  NEW  AGE  23 

Finally,  then,  we  see  how  contemporary  drama 
allies  itself  with  the  future.  A  drama  of  "  social 
predication "  is  a  drama  which  presupposes  im- 
perfections in  the  social  structure.  Such  a  drama 
serves  as  a  direct  excitant  to  social  reform.  The 
moral  force  of  this  manifest  socialization  of  liter- 
ature is  unmistakable.  Men  every^vhere  now,  in 
the  dynamic  art  of  drama,  are  bending  their  ef- 
forts to  the  perfecting  of  civil  life,  the  enlargement 
of  the  freedom  of  the  individual  consonant  with 
the  higher  social  interests,  the  improvement  of  the 
prevailing  social  and  moral  order  of  the  world, 
in  the  interest  of  society  of  to-day  and  of  the 
future.  Long  before  Marinetti  sent  his  multi- 
colored manifestoes  fluttering  down  into  the  Piazza 
San  Marco,  a  new  social  futurism  had  been  born 
in  the  manger  of  modem  art.  The  epitome  of  this 
new  social  futurism  in  art  is  found  in  the  toast 
which  Ibsen  drank  at  a  banquet  in  inauguration  of 
the  coming  age : 

"To    that    which    is    to    be: 
To  that  which   shall  come." 


II 


THE    NEW   CRITICISM   AND    THE    NEW 
ETHICS 

"Do  you  really  attach  much  value  to  categories?  I, 
for  my  part,  believe  that  the  dramatic  categories  are 
elastic,  and  that  they  must  accommodate  themselves  to 
the  literary  facts — not  vice  versa." — Henkik  Ibsen. 

" '  The  true ' — is  only  the  expedient  in  the  way  of  our 
thinking,  just  as  *  the  right '  is  the  expedient  in  the  way 
of  our  behaving." — William  James. 

At  a  moment  like  this,  when  a  new  outburst 
of  dramatic  activity  among  English-speaking  peo- 
ples is  imminent  if  not  actually  present,  it  is  a 
singular  fact  that  criticism  has  not  paved  the 
way  to  popular  understanding  of  the  new  drama. 
It  is  surely  the  function  of  the  critic,  if  Croce 
be  right,  to  identify  himself  with  the  artist  in  so 
complete  and  sensitive  a  way  as  actually  to  repro- 
duce within  himself  those  creative  processes  which 
go  to  the  making  of  the  work  of  art.  Esthetic 
judgment  strives  ever  to  become  more  and  more 
closely  identified  with  creative  art.  Dramatic 
criticism,  as  a  consequence,  should  be  able  to  trace 
these  new  dramatic  life  forms  as  they  emerge  from 
the  brain  of  the  artist.     We  should  then  be  en- 

25 


26  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ablcd  to  learn  the  actual  evolution  of  the  contem- 
porary drama  throughout  the  course  of  its  va- 
rious changes — its  evolution  in  form,  technic,  and 
content. 

America  is  teeming  with  a  vast  horde  of  infi- 
nitely ambitious  playgoers,  no  longer  merely  con- 
tent with  seeing  and  enjoying  plays,  but  intent 
upon  understanding  them.  There  are  many  pub- 
lics, each  of  which  has  a  certain  character,  a  cer- 
tain distinguishing  attribute ;  but  there  is  one  vast 
public  which  is  untrained,  untutored  in  esthetics, 
swinging,  now  this  way,  now  that,  in  search  of 
that  which  shall  gratify  their  fancy  and  delight 
their  senses,  tickle  them  into  laughter,  stir  them 
to  sympathy,  move  them  to  tears.  This  untutored 
throng,  in  its  sometimes  unconscious  aspiration 
for  "  culture,"  wants  to  be  taught  what  the  mod- 
ern drama  is,  what  benefits  it  may  confer,  what 
advantages  it  affords  as  a  means  of  social  enlight- 
enment. Some  new  movement  in  literary  art — fic- 
tion or  drama,  it  matters  not — was  recently  pro- 
posed in  a  great  city  of  the  Middle  West,  and 
there  was  a  delightful  naivete,  indicative  of  the 
aspiring  proletarian  attitude,  in  the  assertion  that 
"  if  the  thing  went  through,  we  would  make  cul- 
ture hum  "/  More  remotely,  perhaps,  but  no  less 
positively,  this  untutored  throng  needs  to  know 
the  significance  of  the  drama,  the  reasons  for  its 
structure,  its  tone,  its  intellectual  cast. 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     27 

Our  critics  of  the  drama  are  unfortunately 
classic  in  predilection.  Their  academic  spirit  dis- 
dains to  touch  the  drama  of  our  own  day  as  a 
distinct  world  movement,  embracing  the  Scandi- 
navian countries,  Europe,  England,  and  the 
United  States.  They  prefer  to  remain  on  the  safe 
ground  of  accomplished  fact.  The  works  already 
produced  in  the  field  of  dramatic  criticism  have 
been,  for  the  most  part,  marked  by  refined  scholar- 
ship, wide  learning,  and  indefatigable  research  into 
origins.  Such  work  is  necessary  and  valuable,  in 
that  it  lays  the  foundation  for  a  proper  under- 
standing of  the  historical  basis  of  the  drama. 
But  it  cannot  be  too  earnestly  urged  that  Amer- 
ica still  awaits  the  dramatic  critic,  liberal  in 
spirit,  catholic  in  taste,  who  wiU  set  forth  delib- 
erately, clearly,  and  without  prejudice,  the  his- 
tory of  the  contemporary  drama  from  the  period 
of  Ibsen  down  to  the  present  moment.  Already 
many  signs  are  present  that  the  time  is  ripe,  the 
conditions  favorable,  for  the  arrival  of  this  criti- 
cism. Only  through  the  medium  of  such  interpre- 
tation will  it  be  possible  to  effect  a  rational 
orientation  in  regard  to  the  drama  of  to-day,  and 
to  achieve  a  proper  outlook  for  the  drama  which 
promises  in  the  future  to  flourish  in  our  midst. 

In  the  contemporary  dramatic  movement,  noth- 
ing is  more  certain  than  the  uncertainty  of  criti- 
cism in  regard  to  the  form,  fundamental  struc- 


28  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

turc,  and  content, — intellectual,  esthetic,  emo- 
tional, social,  moral, — of  a  contemporary  work  of 
dramatic  art.  The  iconoclasm  of  modern  dra- 
matic practice,  the  revolt  of  the  modern  craftsman 
and  his  demand  for  freedom  to  enable  him  to 
open  new  paths  for  the  passage  of  the  creative 
consciousness,  have  proved  vastly  unsettling 
through  the  destruction  of  ancient  superstitions, 
the  shattering  of  outworn  conventions,  and  the 
inauguration  of  new  heresies.  Gustav  Freytag, 
presumably  a  modern  authority  upon  the  technic 
of  the  drama,  wrote  his  Technik  des  Dramas 
scarcely  four  decades  ago.  It  is  significant  to 
observe  that  when  this  book  was  written,  Henrik 
Ibsen  had  not  yet  stirred  modern  consciousness 
with  his  formidable  array  of  social  dramas.  The 
whole  new  realm  of  art  disclosed  by  Ibsen  and  his 
successors  was  excluded  from  the  field  of  Frey- 
tag's  vision.  It  is  this  very  realm  which,  by  the 
richness  of  its  intellectual  content,  the  novelty 
and  variety  of  its  technic,  the  profusion  of  its 
newly  created  forms,  awaits  an  interpreter  and 
historian. 

Until  near  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century 
English  dramatic  criticism  achieved  notoriety, 
rather  than  notability,  for  its  failure  to  recognize 
and  to  realize  the  great  masters  in  drama  for  our 
epoch — Ibsen  and  Wagner.  This  failure  indubit- 
ably  ensued  because   Ibsen   and  Wagner,   icono- 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     29 

clasts  in  their  respective  fields  of  art,  broke  vio- 
lently with  the  traditions.  The  vital  defect  of 
English  criticism  was  the  inabihtj  to  recognize 
that  Ibsen  and  Wagner,  for  all  their  iconoclasm, 
succeeded  in  establishing  standards  of  rigor  in 
craftsmanship,  seldom,  if  ever,  equaled  upon  the 
ancient  stage.  There  is  always  something  of 
the  iconoclast  in  the  genius :  the  iconoclast  and 
the  reformer  are  phases  of  one  and  the  same  life. 
The  genius  still  defies  definition.  That  is  an  in- 
complete and  partial  definition  which  assertj  that 
greatness  consists  simply  in  doing  what  other 
people  have  done  but  doing  it  better.  To-day  we 
should  define  this,  not  as  genius,  but  as  efficiency. 
Such  a  definition  cripples  the  genius,  clips  his 
wings,  bars  all  doors  to  creative  imagination  and 
constructive  fancy.  Since  Taine,  we  have  come 
to  recognize  that,  in  a  certain  specific  sense,  the 
work  of  art,  no  less  than  the  human  being,  has  its 
heredity,  its  origins,  its  transmitted  qualities. 
But  we  also  know  that  it  is  free  to  acquire  new 
characteristics,  to  take  new  shapes,  to  compel  the 
formulation  of  new  laws.  Genius  is  protean,  crea- 
tive, subject  to  a  vital  urge  which  fructifies  in  its 
advance,  resulting  in  the  throwing  off  of  new  and 
hitherto  unsuspected  varieties.  Genius  in  the 
Bergsonian  sense  is  the  creative  faculty  of  doing 
what  no  one  else  has  ever  done  before,  and  thereby 
setting  new  standards  to  be  formulated  by  poster- 


30  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ity.  "  The  greatest  artist,"  Bernard  Shaw 
rightly  maintains,  "  is  he  who  goes  a  step  beyond 
the  demand,  and  by  supplying  works  of  a  higher 
beauty  and  a  higher  interest  than  have  yet  been 
perceived  succeeds,  after  a  brief  struggle  with  its 
strangeness,  in  adding  this  fresh  extension  of  sense 
to  the  heritage  of  the  race." 

The  drama  is  an  evolutionary  form.  It  is  sub- 
ject to  modification  under  the  pressure  of  genius, 
and  through  cross-fertilization  from  the  impact  of 
other  forms.  It  develops,  grows  in  accord  with 
the  evolving  standards  of  society.  True  drama 
springs  from  the  inner  essential  compulsion  of 
the  dramatic  artist  to  creative  self-expression,  and 
not  from  any  motive,  however  laudable  and 
worthy,  to  conform  to  classical  traditions  or  to 
current  canons  of  taste.  This  is  not  to  say  that 
the  artist  can  ignore  the  inherent  limitations  of 
the  drama  as  an  art  form,  or  defy  such  rules 
as  are  unalterably  fixed  by  the  individuality  of 
his  medium.  The  true  artist,  however  original 
or  iconoclastic,  can  ignore  only  at  his  peril  what 
Pater  calls  "  the  responsibility  of  the  artist  to 
his  materials." 

It  cannot,  however,  be  too  vigorously  affirmed 
that  while  the  drama  is  essentially  a  democratic 
form  of  art,  in  the  last  analysis  it  is  not  the  pub- 
lic, but  the  artist,  who  dictates  the  dramatic  form. 
That  revolution  in  dramatic  art,  which  Mr.  Walk- 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     31 

ley  lightly  refers  to  as  "  the  Ibsen  episode,"  is 
clear  in  its  demonstration  that  Ibsen  dictated  to 
the  public  for  its  adoption  the  form  of  the  drama, 
subject  to  individual  and  racial  modification,  for 
an  indefinite  period.  Ibsen's  own  plays  have 
never  swayed  and  carried  with  them  the  great 
public  in  English-speaking  countries ;  but  the 
plays  of  his  followers  in  all  civilized  countries  con- 
stitute the  dramatic  output  of  our  time.  This 
is  a  most  significant  circumstance,  demonstrating 
that,  regardless  of  popular  approbation,  the  dra- 
matist and  not  the  public  is  the  ultimate  authority 
in  the  dictation  of  dramatic  form.  Oscar  Wilde 
was  quite  right  in  fact,  if  not  in  tone,  when  he 
asserted  that  the  public  is  not  the  munificent 
patron  of  the  artist,  but  that  the  artist  is  the 
munificent  patron  of  the  public.  That  fresh  ex- 
tension of  sense  to  the  heritage  of  the  race,  of 
which  Shaw  speaks,  is  the  contribution  of  neither 
critic  nor  public :  it  is  the  contribution  of  the 
creative  artist  himself. 

Since  the  "  laws  "  of  the  drama  were  formulated 
by  Aristotle,  they  have  evolved  ceaselessly 
throughout  the  ages.  The  dramatists  of  to-day 
chafe  under  the  manifest  injustice  of  having  their 
works  measured  by  the  Aristotelian  yardstick, 
long  since  recognized  as  two  thousand  years  out 
of  date.  No  matter  how  remarkable  Aristotle 
may  have  been  in  perception,  intuition,  and  analy- 


32  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

sis,  his  formulation  of  the  results  of  the  practice 
of  dramatists  until  his  time  are  to-day  invalid  if 
only  on  the  score  of  incompleteness.  They  can- 
not serve  as  "  laws  "  for  the  governance  and  re- 
straint of  contemporary  genius.  There  is  jus- 
tice in  the  protest  of  a  man  like  Granville  Barker : 
"In  the  drama  we  are  constantly  referred  to  the 
sayings  of  a  person  called  Aristotle.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  urge  against  them,  and  their  quotation 
when  one  of  Gilbert  Murray's  translations  of 
Euripides  appears  would  seem  to  me  entirely  ap- 
propriate, though  even  then  I  might  prefer 
Euripides  wrong  to  Aristotle  right.  But  if  the 
first  words  about  the  drama,  however  illuminating, 
are  to  be  treated  in  any  way  whatsoever  as  if  they 
must  be  the  last,  then  I  protest.  The  drama  is 
alive,  and  about  life  there  is  nothing  final  to  be 
said.  I  protest  that  in  art  nothing  but  its  physical 
boundaries  should  be  taken  for  granted.  .  .  . 
Surely  the  sign  of  life  in  art  has  always  been  the 
revolt  against  tradition,  the  determination  to  re- 
mold the  old  forms  which  will  no  longer  perfectly 
contain  or  express  the  new  spirit." 

The  way-breaker  in  art,  it  must  be  granted,  is 
at  once  disciple  and  master  of  his  age.  Disciple, 
because  he  must  study  and  realize  his  age  in  order 
to  be  its  interpreter  and  exponent.  Master,  be- 
cause he  imparts  to  his  product  something  per- 
sonal,  incommunicable,   inalienable — and   thereby 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     33 

dominates  the  thought  and  stimulates  the  emotions 
of  his  contemporaries.  The  technic  of  Ibsen  has 
become  the  common  mold  into  which  the  most 
noteworthy  dramas  of  to-day  are  cast ;  but  the 
genius,  the  spirit,  of  Ibsen  no  one  has  been  able 
to  imitate  with  success.  The  evolutional  trend 
of  all  art,  imaginative  and  realistic,  impera- 
tively obliges  the  dramatist  to  make  himself  con- 
versant with — which  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing 
as  slavishly  subservient  to — the  prevailing  con- 
ditions of  his  art  as  practised  by  his  fellow-crafts- 
men. If  he  is  to  reap  to  the  full  the  benefit  of 
both  past  progress  and  present  innovation,  the 
dramatist  must  squarely  take  account  of  all  that 
has  been  done  before  him.  The  works  of  his  fore- 
runners may  furnish  the  new  dramatist  inspira- 
tion for  fresh  endeavors.  These  works  may,  on  the 
other  hand,  hold  up  fingers  of  warning  against  the 
errors  into  which  the  authors  fell.  "  To  Alexander 
Dumas  I  owe  nothing,  as  regards  dramatic  form," 
said  Ibsen  in  answer  to  the  inquiry  of  Brandes — 
manifestly  an  unconscious  prevarication  prompted 
by  pique — but  he  significantly  adds,  "  except  that 
I  have  learned  from  his  plays  to  avoid  several 
very  awkward  faults  and  blunders,  of  which  he  is 
not  infrequently  guilty."  "  The  drama,"  says 
Pinero,  "  is  not  stationary,  but  progressive.  By 
this  I  do  not  mean  that  it  is  always  improving; 
what  I  do  mean  is  that  its  conditions  are  always 


34  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

changing,  and  that  every  dramatist  whose  ambi- 
tion it  is  to  produce  live  plays  is  absolutely 
bound  to  study  carefully  the  conditions  that  hold 
good  for  his  own  day  and  generation." 

In  the  present  time,  when  such  practical  scien- 
tists as  De  Vries  and  Burbank  have  shown  that 
evolution  proceeds,  not  invariably  by  infinitely 
slow  processes  extending  through  aeons  of  time, 
but  occasionally  by  sudden  and  startling  muta- 
tions, one  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  valid 
parallels  in  the  domain  of  art  and  letters.  Indeed, 
a  resurvey  of  the  history  of  the  drama  in  the 
light  of  modern  scientific  theory  indicates  that  its 
types,  in  the  course  of  their  evolution,  have  ex- 
hibited sudden  and  revolutionary  changes,  in  par- 
ticular during  periods  when  the  drama  flourished 
as  the  most  potent  of  the  literary  art  forms. 
The  history  of  the  drama  is  made  up  at  once  of 
the  biographies  of  great  men  and  of  the  biogra- 
phies of  great  movements — individual,  personal 
factors  and  their  inevitable  consequence,  direct  and 
spontaneous  outbursts  of  creative  energy.  If  it 
be  true  that  the  drama  is  the  meeting  place  of  art 
and  life,  then  there  need  be  no  surprise  in  the 
discovery  that  the  drama  is  responsive  to  the 
conditions  and  attributes  of  the  civilization  which 
gives  it  birth.  Aristophanes  knew  as  little  of 
the  captain  of  industry  or  the  conservation  of 
natural  resources  as  Shakespeare  knew  of  wireless 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     35 

telegraphy,  Moliere  of  Darwinism,  or  Hugo  of 
Pragmatism.  It  would  have  been  as  impossible 
for  Corneille  to  write  a  Ghosts  or  Calderon  a 
Waste,  as  it  would  be  to-day  for  Bernard  Shaw 
to  say  what  society  will  be  like  under  Socialism. 
Shakespeare's  conception  of  tragedy  differs  as 
much  from  Aristotle's  as  Ibsen's  differs  from 
Dryden's.  Centuries  separate  the  intimate  the- 
ater of  Strindberg,  the  one-act  dramolet  of 
Schnitzler,  from  the  Greek  drama,  in  that  Olym- 
pian home  of  the  plastic  arts,  and  from  the 
sprawling  Chronicle  play  of  the  pre-Elizabethan 
period. 

This  law  of  change  finds  instructive,  often 
amusing,  exemplification  in  the  circumstance  that 
plays,  like  people,  have  a  way  of  aging.  In  a 
revival.  Our  Boys  may  give  all  the  appearance  of 
a  wonderfully  preserved,  but  absurdly  conserva- 
tive, old  man.  When  Dundreary  comes  once  more 
to  the  fore  after  a  lapse  of  forty  years,  we  are 
reminded  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  a  decayed  gen- 
tleman. The  artist  of  one  age  is  the  artisan  in 
the  eyes  of  the  next.  The  rigid  conventions  of  one 
period  of  art  culture  become  the  threadbare  con- 
ventionalities of  a  more  advanced  epoch.  The 
lyric  romanticism  of  yesterday  seems  but  the 
most  artificial  affectation  to-day.  Customs,  man- 
ners, and  even  morals  all  become  obsolete  in  the 
course  of  time.     Human  nature,  in  a  word  char- 


36  THE  CHANGING  DRAIMA 

acter,  alone  remains  the  same.  Plus  <^a  change, 
plus  c^est  la  meme  chose  is  an  aphorism  that 
breaks  down  for  the  drama  in  its  structural  and 
physical  aspects.  The  face  of  society  and  the 
conventions  of  technic  perpetually  change  in  a 
like  ratio ;  and  once  changed,  progress  seldom  per- 
mits reversion  to  type.  From  time  to  time  there 
may  be  a  species  of  atavism,  the  "  throw  back  " 
of  Ghosts  to  the  type  of  CEdipus,  for  example,  of 
Maeterlinck  to  Shakespeare  and  the  pre-Shake- 
spearean  tragedy  of  blood.  But  in  general  prog- 
ress is  evolutional ;  and  plays,  after  a  certain 
length  of  time,  varying  with  conditions  and  cir- 
cumstances, begin  to  "  date  "  in  a  hopeless  and 
deplorable  fashion.  "  Everything  has  its  own 
rate  of  change,"  says  Bernard  Shaw.  "  Fashions 
change  more  quickly  than  manners,  manners  more 
quickly  than  morals,  morals  more  quickly  than 
passions,  and,  in  general,  the  conscious  reasonable 
life  more  quickly  than  the  instinctive,  wilful,  af- 
fectionate one.  The  dramatist  who  deals  with  the 
irony  and  humor  of  the  relatively  durable  sides 
of  life,  or  with  their  pity  and  terror,  is  the  one 
whose  comedies  and  tragedies  will  last  longest — 
sometimes  so  long  as  to  lead  a  book-struck  gen- 
eration to  dub  him  '  Immortal ' ;  and  proclaim  him 
as  '  not  for  an  age,  but  for  all  time.'  " 

In    precisely   the   same   way,   the    fundamental 
tone   of  the   drama,   its   outlook   on   life,   in   the 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     37 

course  of  time  undergoes  alteration  through  the 
influence  of  the  evolutionary  trend  of  human 
ideals.  "  It  has  been  said  of  me  on  different  oc- 
casions that  I  am  a  pessimist,"  said  Ibsen  in  a 
speech  at  a  banquet  in  Stockholm  in  1887.  "  And 
so  I  am  in  so  far  as  I  do  not  believe  in  the  ever- 
lastingness  of  human  ideals.  But  I  am  also  an 
optimist  in  so  far  as  I  firmly  believe  in  the  ca- 
pacity for  procreation  and  development  of  ideals." 
As  ideals  in  one  stage  of  civilization  tend  to  dis- 
integrate, they  are  replaced  by  ideals  which  are 
more  progressive,  more  in  conformity  with  the 
spirit  of  the  coming  age. 

Beautiful  in  sentiment,  false  in  thesis,  are  the 

lines : 

"All  passes.     Art  alone 
Enduring  stays  to  us; 
The   Bust  outlasts   the   throne, — 
The    Coin,    Tiberius; 

Even  the  gods  must  go; 

Only    the    lofty    Rime 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow, — 

Nor  long  array  of  Time." 

We  are  coming  to  see  nowadays  that  art,  in  its 
monuments,  does  not  enduring  stay  to  us ;  that 
the  principles  which  art  embodies,  the  morals  it 
enshrines,  under  changed  conditions,  tend  slowly 
toward  loss  of  appeal,  toward  loss  of  validity,  so 
that  the  worth  of  the  art  work  as  a  symbol  of 
the  enduring  is  ultimately  vitiated.  Nietzsche  in- 
sisted upon  a  "  transvaluation  of  all  values."    By 


38  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

transvaluation  he  meant  re-valuation — with  a 
difference.  In  such  a  process  we  are  transported 
out  of  the  old  region  of  conventional  valuation, 
across  the  boundary  line,  into  a  new  realm  of 
juster  judgment  and  more  clear-sighted  appraisal. 
Transvaluation  in  ideals,  in  morals,  necessarily  en- 
forces a  partial  transvaluation  in  esthetic  values 
— in  that  all  art  has  a  two-fold  appeal,  moral  as 
well  as  esthetic.  "  It  is  not  without  deep  pain," 
confesses  Nietzsche,  consummate  artist  as  well  as 
philosopher  and  moralist,  "  that  we  acknowledge 
the  fact  that  in  their  loftiest  soarings  artists  of 
all  ages  have  exalted  and  divinely  transfigured 
precisely  those  ideas  which  we  now  recognize  as 
false ;  they  are  the  glorifiers  of  humanity's  relig- 
ions and  philosophical  errors ;  and  they  could  not 
have  been  this  without  belief  in  the  absolute  truth 
of  these  errors."  As  we  advance  in  civilization, 
we  lose  our  reverence  for  those  ideals,  moral  quali- 
ties, individual  virtues,  social  predispositions 
which  were  once  regarded  as  universally  valid 
and  obligatory.  There  is  a  corresponding,  though 
not  a  fixed  or  measurable,  waning  of  interest  in 
works  of  art  embodying  these  outworn  values. 
The  ancient  values  are  replaced  by  new  and  more 
enlightened  values,  according  more  precisely  with 
the  spirit  of  the  age.  Dramatists  like  Ibsen, 
Galsworthy,  Brieux,  and  Shaw  ruthlessly  expose 
the  tragic  consequences  of  adherence  to  "  duties  " 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     39 

which  are  no  longer  obligatory;  enjoin  upon  us 
the  necessity  of  revolt  against  the  tyranny  of  out- 
worn customs;  inspire  us  to  shatter  the  ancient 
social  petrifactions  which  destroy  the  vitality 
and  initiative  of  human  impulse.  The  callous 
cynicism  and  brutal  tyranny  which  make  possible  a 
Patient  Griselda  only  shock  a  generation  busied 
in  granting  to  woman  the  rights  of  common  hu- 
manity, of  political  and  economic  freedom — the 
right,  in  a  word,  to  normal  development  as  in- 
dividual. 

As  social  and  ethical  ideas  and  ideals  evolve 
through  the  course  of  the  centuries,  the  so-called 
classics  of  the  past  steadily  weaken  their  hold 
upon  the  consciousness  of  humanity.  But  it  must 
be  pointed  out  that  this  loss  is  counterbalanced 
by  the  persistence  of  the  esthetic  principles  which 
the  art  work  embodies.  We  must  not  confuse  the 
categories  of  ethics  and  esthetics.  Historical 
criticism  demands  that  the  work  of  art  shall  be 
judged  in  the  light  of  the  ideals  which  produced 
it.  "  Art,"  says  Alfred  Stevens,  "  is  nature  seen 
through  the  prism  of  an  emotion  " ;  and  a  true 
work  of  art,  the  vitally  moving  vision  of  nature, 
is  dateless  and  eternal.  It  survives  as  a  living 
monument  of  the  buried  life  of  the  past.  It  as- 
suredly tends  to  lose  its  esthetic  procreative  func- 
tion— its  power  of  giving  rise  to  other  works  of 
art.     We  may  admire  and  jealously  preserve  art 


40  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

works  which  we  would  never  dream  of  imitating. 
Art  as  art  is  wliolly  independent  of  either  utility 
or  morality,  possessing  a  value  that  is  intrinsic. 
But  when  we  create  a  work  of  art,  we  are  ani- 
mated by  a  conscious  or  an  unconscious  moral 
motive.  "  We  select  from  the  crowd  of  intuitions 
which  are  formed  or  at  least  sketched  within  us," 
says  Croce ;  "  and  the  selection  is  governed  by 
selection  of  the  economic  conditions  of  life  and  of 
its  moral  direction.  Therefore,  when  we  have 
formed  an  intuition,  it  remains  to  decide  whether 
or  no  we  should  communicate  it  to  others,  and  to 
whom,  and  when,  and  how;  all  of  which  considera- 
tions fall  equally  under  the  utilitarian  and  ethical 
conception." 

Procreative  art  works  contain  within  themselves 
the  germ  of  esthetic  development,  of  utilitarian 
and  ethical  application.  Imitation  of  the  classics 
ceases  when  the  classics  reveal  themselves  as  out- 
worn repositories  of  ideas,  feelings,  views  of  life 
which  have  lost  their  validit}^  verity  and  force  for 
the  modern  world.  The  thinking  of  to-day  has 
grown  sanely  pragmatic.  Truth  itself  now  has 
an  utilitarian  attribute :  it  must  "  make  good." 
Beauty  is  judged  in  the  same  way.  The  con- 
temporary artist  has  abandoned  the  esthetic  treat- 
ment of  false  ideas,  however  hallowed,  enshrined 
in  classic  literature.  For  this  day,  such  ideas 
are  false  because  they  won't  "  work." 


NEW  CRITICISM  AND  NEW  ETHICS     41 

The  questions,  of  form,  of  technic,  of  content, 
raised  bj  the  persistent  practice  of  dramatists 
during  the  past  half  century,  demand  conscientious 
treatment  and  adequate  solution  at  the  hands  of 
contemporary  dramatic  criticism.  New  ideas  have 
forced  their  way  to  the  front;  new  forms  of  art 
have  met  acceptance  at  the  hands  of  the  public; 
new  dramatic  conventions  have  replaced  the  out- 
worn and  theatrical  conventionalities  of  an  earlier 
epoch.  The  pressure  of  realism  and  the  impulsive 
thrust  of  the  new  social  order  have  basically  af- 
fected the  structure,  tenor,  and  content  of  the 
drama.  The  psychology  of  the  crowd  helps  us 
to  a  more  rational  comprehension  of  the  secrets 
of  popular  appeal.  The  architectural  features  of 
the  modem  playhouse  are  not  without  their  subtle 
but  unmistakable  influence  in  conditioning  the 
form  of  the  modern  drama.  More  irrevocable 
than  ever  before  is  the  divorce  of  play  from  public, 
actors  from  audience.  Gone  is  the  court-yard 
stage  of  Shakespeare,  gone  the  tennis-court  stage 
of  the  Grand  Monarque,  gone  the  semi-circular 
platform  of  but  a  century  ago.  To-day  the  illu- 
sion of  objectivity  is  immense,  the  pictorial  appeal 
inescapable.  We  gaze  through  a  picture-frame 
encircling  the  farce  or  the  melodrama,  the  comedy 
or  the  tragedy,  of  this,  our  time. 


Ill 

SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA 

"  In  order  to  survive,  a  literary  form  must  be  as- 
similated by  society,  must  demonstrate  its  utility  by  ex- 
pressing better  that  society's  view  of  what  is  real  and 
true  in  life." — John  Pkeston  Hoskins. 

Any  profound  study  of  the  evolution  of  the 
drama  in  relation  to  its  formal  development  in- 
evitably leads  to  a  readjustment  of  view  in  regard 
to  those  marvelous,  hypothetical  formulas  which 
the  night-by-night  chronicler  of  the  passing  show 
glibly  and  unquestioningly  terms  the  "  laws  of  the 
drama."  Less  than  a  century  ago,  prior  to  Dar- 
win's formulation  of  the  theory  of  evolution,  and 
long  antecedent  to  De  Vries'  exposition  of  the  phe- 
nomena of  mutation,  and  William  James'  enuncia- 
tion of  the  doctrine  of  Pragmatism,  such  hamper- 
ing restrictions  as  the  postulates  of  the  three 
unities  stood  virtually  unchallenged  as  obligatory 
laws  of  the  drama.  Only  three  decades  ago, 
Brunetiere  dogmatically  enunciated  the  "  unique 
law  of  the  drama."  And  to-day,  the  dead  hand 
of  formalism  in  drama  still  weighs  heavily,  a 
retarding   force   upon   a  noble   art.      Authority, 

43 


44  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

masked  in  the  garb  of  Aristotle,  of  Lessing,  of 
Freytag,  of  Brunetiere,  is  invoked  to  crush  the 
new  movement  toward  freedom — the  freedom  for 
the  exercise  of  the  creative  function  in  the  pro- 
duction of  new  forms. 

The  drama  is  a  life  form,  as  well  as  an  art 
form.  As  such,  it  is  a  function  of  the  human 
spirit.  Science,  then,  includes  it  within  its  survey  ; 
and  properly  regards  it  as  a  species  subject  to 
variation  and  mutation.  A  vast  domain  opens 
before  the  new  art  criticism,  which  shall  draw  its 
analogies  from  the  field  of  biological  science — 
these  analogies  modified  in  accordance  with  the 
peculiar  restrictions  of  the  work  of  art  as  a  life 
form.  History  affords  innumerable  illustrations 
of  the  variations  of  literary  species  in  accordance 
with  certain  principles  cognate,  if  not  identical, 
with  the  laws  governing  biological  phenomena.  A 
given  variety  of  dramatic  form, — the  fate  tragedy 
of  the  Greeks,  the  blood-and-thunder  drama  of  the 
pre-Elizabethans,  the  well-made  play  of  Scribe, — 
undergoes  a  process  of  active  evolution.  This 
variety,  by  reason  of  its  social  utility,  through 
insensible  gradations,  a  continuous  improvement 
and  stratification,  fixes  itself  as  an  accepted  type 
of  drama.  When  this  variety  has  reached  the 
stage  of  universal  acceptance,  the  dramatist,  the 
original  human  factor,  introduces  some  new  unit 
character  into  the  group  of  units  which  constitute 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     45 

this  particular  type  of  variety.  This  originality 
of  individual  genius  is  as  yet  a  complex  and  not 
altogether  comprehensible  phenomenon.  Immedi- 
ately, a  sharp  mutation  takes  place:  a  new 
variety,  individually  distinct  from  the  old,  comes 
into  being. 

The  Greek  dramatist  created  the  species  of 
fate-tragedy  with  the  unit  idea  of  human  panic 
and  dread  in  face  of  the  unplumbed  mysteries  of 
man's  origin,  purpose,  and  destiny.  Marlowe  and 
Shakespeare,  reflecting  the  deeper  instincts  of 
Protestant  theology,  incorporated  into  the  drama 
the  unit  idea  of  individual  responsibility.  The 
conception  was  so  revolutionary,  the  transference 
of  the  controlling  will  of  the  world  from  God  to 
man  so  anarchic,  that  a  new  species  originated. 
This  was  the  drama  of  individual  fatality,  in 
which  fate  becomes  synonymous  with  individual 
character  and  conscience.  From  the  doctrine  of 
evolution,  Ibsen  imports  into  the  drama  a  new 
unit  idea :  the  idea  that  the  individual  is  the  crea- 
ture of  the  historical  moment,  of  social  environ- 
ment, of  physical  heredity.  A  transformation 
takes  place,  giving  rise  to  the  new  species :  the 
drama  of  naturalism.  From  the  philosophy  of 
mysticism,  the  contemplative  sphere  of  Novalis, 
Ruysbroeck,  and  Emerson,  Maeterlinck  selects  a 
unit  idea :  the  idea  that  passive  virtue  has  a  higher 
ideal  value  than  constructive  deeds.     This  unit 


46  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

idea,  projected  into  drama,  leads  in  criticism  to 
the  theory  of  the  static  drama ;  in  dramaturgy  to 
the  emergence  of  a  new  variety :  tlie  drama  of  im- 
mobility. From  the  field  of  politics,  Shaw  imports 
into  the  drama  the  idea  that  words,  the  expression 
of  inspired  conviction,  are  not  only  as  valuable  as 
actions,  but  are  themselves  actions  in  the  sense 
of  being  creative  and  constructive  agencies  for 
the  influence  and  alteration  of  other  people's  opin- 
ions. A  new  species  is  thus  originated :  the  drama 
of  discussion,  in  which  volitional  activity  is  ex- 
pressed by  means  of  the  free  expression  of  opinion. 
These  new  species,  as  they  come  into  existence, 
are  brought  into  competition  with  already  exist- 
ing species.  This  competition  is  fundamentally 
different  from  the  biological  phenomenon  of  the 
"  struggle  for  existence,"  though  it  bears  a  super- 
ficial similarity  to  it.  The  true  life  form,  in  the 
biological  realm,  throughout  the  course  of  the 
earlier  ages,  did  actually  struggle,  instinctively  or 
volitionally,  to  maintain  its  existence  in  competi- 
tion with  other  rival,  life  forms.  But  Hoskins 
has  astutely  pointed  out  that  different  literary 
species  can  compete  only  for  assimilation  by  the 
public.  So  long  as  a  given  species  conforms  gen- 
erally to  society's  conception  of  ideal  truth  and 
psychological  reality,  so  long  will  that  species 
continue  to  exist  in  demonstration  of  its  social 
utility.     Furthermore,  a  species,  by  reason  of  its 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     47 

perfection  of  form,  may  continue  to  survive,  long 
after  its  social  utility  has  been  impaired  and  its 
ideas  recognized  as  imperfect,  outworn,  or  even 
trivial.  The  Iliad,  as  epic,  survives  as  a  literary 
monument,  not  as  a  creative  art  form;  the  well- 
made  piece  survives  by  reason  of  the  dexterity 
of  its  dramaturgies,  in  face  of  its  singular  poverty 
of  ideas.  No  real  struggle  for  existence,  for  the 
supplanting  and  destruction  of  another  species, 
can  be  said  to  take  place  in  literature.  For  since 
the  power  of  assimilation  by  the  public  is  un- 
limited, the  "  competition  "  of  one  literary  species 
consists  in  its  adaptation  to  intellectual  and  social 
environment,  and  in  no  sense  involves  as  a  conse- 
quence the  elimination  of  another  literary  species. 
The  people  in  the  theater  who  sit  as  guilty  par- 
ticipants in  the  social  evils  depicted  by  Haupt- 
mann  still  rejoice  in  the  enlargement  and  in- 
vigoration  of  the  human  ego  afforded  by  the  in- 
dividualistic drama  of  Shakespeare  and  Schiller. 
The  same  individual  is  capable  of  experiencing, 
with  pleasurable  emotion,  at  once  the  acceleration 
of  pulse  evoked  by  the  romantic  comedy  of 
Rostand,  the  mental  cerebration  set  up  by  the 
dialectic  comedy  of  Shaw,  the  sociologic  indigna- 
tion aroused  by  the  tragi-comedy  of  Ibsen. 

In  a  genuine,  and  profound  sense,  a  literary 
species  may  illustrate  phenomena  of  survival, 
cognate  to  the  biological  phenomena  of  survival. 


48  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

A  literary  species  possesses  fecundity  in  two 
senses.  First,  as  already  shown,  through  its  apti- 
tude for  passive  assimilation  by  society.  Second, 
through  its  power  of  creativeness.  In  the  latter 
sense,  a  literary  species  survives  when  it  possesses 
within  itself  the  germs  of  reproductive  imitation. 
That  is  to  say,  it  possesses  the  qualities  of  perma- 
nent virility  which  result  in  inspiring  the  creation 
of  similar  works  after  its  own  model.  An  Ibsen 
creates  a  new  species  of  drama;  and  this  species 
as  a  model  inspires  countless  followers  of  Ibsen 
to  imitation  and  reproduction,  with  minor  varia- 
tions. 

Both  novelty  of  form  and  novelty  of  content 
are  instrumentalities  in  prolonging  the  life  of  a 
species.  A  question  which  naturally  arises  in  this 
connection  Is  this:  which  attribute,  form  or  con- 
tent, is  the  more  virile,  the  better  calculated  to 
assure  the  survival  of  a  given  species?  A  work 
of  art,  long  after  its  powers  of  reproductive 
stimulation  are  entirely  exhausted,  survives  for 
the  sake  of  its  form,  as  a  noteworthy  literary 
achievement.  It  is  interesting  in  the  history  of 
literature  as  the  fossil  remains  of  the  dinosaur 
are  interesting  in  the  history  of  science — as 
marking  a  transition  in  the  evolution  of  species. 
Content,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  vital,  living  force 
— more  accessible  and  more  easily  understood  by 
the  public  than  artistic  form,  which  in  its  last 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     49 

analysis  is  mechanistic.  The  variation  exhibited 
in  any  new  literary  species  is  effected  by  ideas 
imported  from  other  realms  of  thought,  and  not 
from  ideas  already  existent  in  the  sphere  of  liter- 
ature. Since  content,  expression  of  ideas,  appeals 
to  society  as  a  living,  active  issue,  while  style, 
form,  is  merely  a  passive  virtue,  it  is  logical  to 
infer  that  content  wields  a  wider  and  deeper  influ- 
ence upon  the  life  of  literature  than  form.  Per- 
fection of  form  serves  as  a  preservative  against 
the  corrosive  test  of  time.  But  content,  an  ex- 
pression of  the  universal  life  of  the  race,  may 
exert  vast  influence  even  when  the  form  is  im- 
perfect. And  furthermore,  it  seldom  fails  to 
contain  the  vital  stimulant  to  imitative  reproduc- 
tion so  rarely  lodged  in  form. 

In  any  consideration  of  the  formal  development 
of  the  drama,  the  new  dramatic  critic,  with  the 
enlarged  view  aff'orded  by  the  most  recent  scien- 
tific discoveries,  in  particular  the  theories  of  Dar- 
win and  De  Vries,  views  with  suspicion  the  attempt 
to  formulate  absolute  laws  governing  literary 
species.  Indeed,  the  drama,  viewed  in  the  light 
of  the  doctrine  of  evolution,  cannot  be  subject 
to  a  group  of  absolute  rules  or  laws  posited  in 
advance.  For  since  the  drama,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  historical  moment,  the  pressure  of 
social  thought,  the  advance  of  civilization,  under- 
goes a  continuous  process  of  evolution,  the  "  laws  " 


50  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

of  to-day  may  at  any  moment  emerge  into  light  as 
the  false  generalizations  of  criticism  based  upon 
insufficient  data.  The  perpetual  intervention  of 
that  transforming  force,  the  individual  dramatist, 
in  the  realm  of  existent  drama,  gives  rise  to  sudden 
mutations  and  variations  utterly  unforeseen  and, 
indeed,  not  to  be  foreseen  by  the  most  astute  criti- 
cism. The  critic  is  estopped  from  formulating 
hard  and  fast  rules,  the  so-called  "  laws  "  of  the 
drama.  It  were  idle  to  formulate  theories,  and 
afterward  endeavor  to  force  facts  to  conform  to 
those  theories.  The  modern  philosopher,  of  the 
type  of  James  and  Bergson,  concerns  himself 
primarily  with  facts,  phenomena ;  and  his  concern 
is  to  devise  theories,  which  shall  satisfactorily 
and  completely  explain  these  facts  and  phenomena. 
The  modern  scientist,  in  particular  the  pure 
scientist,  employs  a  machinery  of  reasoning  which 
organizes  itself  steadily  toward  greater  and 
greater  accuracy  in  the  determination  of  truth. 
The  mathematician,  the  geometer,  the  physicist, 
can  no  longer  satisfy  himself  with  the  bald  enun- 
ciation of  the  general  laws  conditioning  certain 
phenomena.  For  these  conditions,  unless  minutely 
analyzed,  may  be  deficient  in  two  respects :  they 
may  not  wholly  suffice  to  explain  the  phenomena, 
or  else  they  may  over-explain  it,  and  so  involve 
redundancies.  The  principle  of  scientific  effi- 
ciency demands  that  the  scientist,  in  explaining 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA    51 

phenomena,  shall  formulate  his  conditions  in  such 
a  way  as  to  fulfil  three  tests :  they  must  be  neces- 
sary ;  they  must  be  sufficient ;  and  they  must  con- 
tain no  redundancies.  They  must  be  neither  more 
nor  less  than,  but  exactly,  enough  to  explain  and 
produce  the  given  phenomena.  In  the  sphere  of 
art,  criticism  must  recognize  the  necessity  for 
employing  a  like,  an  equal,  scientific  accuracy  in 
formulating  the  "  laws "  conditioning  literary 
phenomena.  And  furthermore,  whether  he  be  a 
Pragmatist  or  not,  only  at  his  peril  will  he  evade 
the  consequences  of  that  doctrine.  Only  those 
principles  of  drama  which  survive  the  test  of  time 
can  be  termed  the  true  principles  of  the  drama. 
It  is  the  business  of  the  critic,  if  he  can,  to  dis- 
cover the  course  of  the  evolution  of  the  drama. 
That,  and  not  any  abstract,  absolute  law,  posited 
in  advance,  shall  be  the  test  of  the  drama.  The 
true  drama,  then,  is  the  drama  which  prevails ;  and 
it  is  the  critic's  business  to  discover  whether  a 
drama  of  given  form  and  content  will  in  the  long 
run  prevail. 

Survival  as  the  test  of  right,  of  truth,  involves 
the  obligation  to  include  within  one's  survey  the 
entire  scope  of  history,  and  to  make  one's  gen- 
eralizations from  the  largest  attainable  group  of 
facts.  The  most  that  the  critic  can  do,  at  any 
given  moment,  is  to  draw  up  a  series  of  generaliza- 
tions based  upon  a  series  of  scientifically  accurate 


52  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

observations.  From  all  the  considerable  and  note- 
worthy examples  of  drama  which  history  presents 
he  must  disengage  those  principles  and  attributes 
which  are  common  to  all.  Furthermore  he  must 
align  other  generalizations  with  the  trend  of  the 
drama  contemporary  with  himself.  "  Laws  of 
the  drama,"  so-called,  are  empirical  generaliza- 
tions, critical  integrations  of  the  practice  of  all 
dramatists  worthy  of  consideration  up  to  the 
present  time. 

The  most  noteworthy  illustration  of  this  state- 
ment is  the  classic  illustration  of  the  three  unities. 
In  the  light  of  modern  criticism,  based  on  scien- 
tifically accurate  observation  of  the  drama  and 
of  dramatic  criticism  of  all  time,  it  is  obvious 
that  Aristotle  wrote  primarily  for  his  own  epoch, 
and  not  for  ours.  Indeed,  one  may  well  question 
whether  he  was  final  in  his  Poetics,  even  for  his 
own  epoch.  Certain  it  is  that  this  "  master  of 
those  who  know "  was  no  mere  theory-spinner, 
advancing  intricate  hypotheses  concerning  the 
drama  to  exhibit  his  own  intellectual  virtuosity. 
Aristotle  was  an  accurate  thinker,  basing  his 
formulations  of  the  principles  of  the  drama  upon 
a  series  of  close  deductions  from  a  study  of  the 
plays  of  the  Greeks.  The  enormous  field  for  com- 
parison presented  to  the  dramatic  critic  of  to-day 
in  the  dramatic  literatures  of  all  great  art-pro- 
ducing races  throughout  all  recorded  history  was 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     53 

not  open  to  him.  His  criticism  inevitably  exhibits 
the  limitations  imposed  upon  him  by  the  fact  that 
he  was  restricted  solely  to  an  intensive  study  of 
the  drama  of  the  Greeks.  Nevertheless,  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that  he  spoke  with  authority  for 
his  own  epoch.  And  there  be  those  who  still 
tediously  maintain  that  he  spoke  with  final  au- 
thority for  ours.  A  profound  student  of  the 
drama  of  actual  representation,  that  is,  the  play 
in  a  theater  performed  by  actors  before  an  au- 
dience, he  arrived  at  many  conclusions  which  were 
valid,  not  only  for  the  drama  of  his  own  day,  but 
for  the  drama  of  all  time. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  a  simple  illustration  will 
show,  he  made  ex  cathedra  generalizations  which 
were  scarcely  valid  even  for  the  drama  of  the 
Greeks.  "  As  for  the  story,"  he  says,  "  whether 
the  poet  takes  it  ready  made  or  constructs 
it  for  himself,  he  should  first  sketch  its  general 
outline,  and  then  fill  in  the  episodes  and  amplify 
in  detail."  The  confessions  of  numerous  modern 
dramatists,  from  Ibsen  down,  demonstrate  that 
there  are  a  variety  of  ways,  which  may  be  in- 
numerable, in  which  one  may  construct  a  play. 
In  an  analysis  of  the  preliminary  drafts  for  Ib- 
sen's plays,  which  is  found  in  my  European  Dra- 
matists, it  is  shown  that  Ibsen  pursued  methods 
which  varied  according  to  varying  circumstances : 
the  nature  of  the  play,  the  philosophic  idea  he  had 


54  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

matured,  the  incidents  from  life  which  furnished 
the  starting  point  or  germ  of  a  drama,  the  pecul- 
iar temperament  of  some  particular  individual 
or  group  of  individuals  of  his  acquaintance,  cer- 
tain scientific  discoveries,  the  atmosphere  which 
he  wished  to  create.  We  have  record  of  the  con- 
fessions of  various  practical  craftsmen,  showing 
both  variety  and  contrariety  in  the  task  of  writ- 
ing a  drama.  The  injunction  of  Aristotle,  nar- 
row and  false  as  it  is,  sounds  rather  more  like 
warning  than  advice — a  warning  against  the 
Greek  tendency  toward  a  certain  plastic  immobil- 
ity. Aristotle  may  perhaps  have  realized  that  he 
was  writing  for  all  time ;  he  was  assuredly  shrewd 
enough  to  realize  that  it  was  his  immediate  busi- 
ness to  write  with  reference  to  the  stage  of  his 
own  day.  Writing  before  an  age  like  our  own, 
grown  skeptical  of  the  practical  utility  of  dra- 
matic criticism,  he  took  himself  seriously,  and 
wrote  for  the  profit  and  service  of  the  dramatists 
who  were  his  contemporaries. 

The  three  unities — the  unities  of  time,  of  place, 
and  of  action — are  still  inaccurately  referred  to 
as  the  "  unities  of  Aristotle."  Modern  criticism 
has  demonstrated  that,  in  his  Poetics,  Aristotle 
insists  upon  only  one  unity — unity  of  action.  He 
actually  does  not  lay  down  the  preservation  of 
the  unities  of  time  and  place  as  fundamental 
"  laws  "   of  the  drama.     Unity  of  place   is   not 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     55 

adverted  to  in  the  Poetics;  and  his  disquisitions 
upon  unity  of  time,  as  analysis  shows,  quite  nat- 
urally prove  to  be  merely  his  critical  deductions, 
drawn  from  patient  interrogation  of  the  habitual 
practice  of  the  ablest  dramatists  up  to  his  time. 
Since  his  time,  the  critical  controversies  over  the 
question  of  the  preservation  of  the  unities,  which 
have  transpired  in  all  countries  where  the  drama 
has  flourished  as  an  art,  furnishes  the  subject  for 
one  of  those  elaborate,  yet  so  far  as  the  contem- 
porary dramatist  is  concerned,  largely  profitless 
disquisitions  over  questions  which  have  passed 
from  the  field  of  practical  utility.  Not  without  its 
piquant  humor  is  the  memory  that,  in  the  days 
of  Corneille,  the  odium  dramaticum  burned  almost 
as  fiercely  as  the  odium  theologicum.  No  drama- 
tist was  awarded  the  critical  seal  of  approval  un- 
less he  conformed  to  the  three  sacrosanct  unities. 
Boileau,  the  spokesman  of  critical  authority,  re- 
formulated what  he  conceived  to  be  the  Aristote- 
lian principles  in  the  terse  and  succinct  declaration 
that  a  tragedy  must  show  "  one  action  in  one  day 
and  in  one  place."  So  convinced  were  the  critics 
of  the  period,  and  of  the  two  or  three  succeeding 
centuries,  of  the  validity  and  universal  pertinency 
of  the  "Aristotelian  principles,"  that  they  be- 
lieved that,  had  the  Poetics  been  destroyed  in  an- 
cient times,  it  would  have  been  necessary  to  rein- 
vent, or  rather,  recodify,  the  same  principles. 


56  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Unity  of  time,  so-called,  was  recognized  by 
Aristotle  as  a  characteristic  of  the  dramas  of  the 
Greeks,  and  not  at  all  as  a  distinctive  attribute  of 
the  dramatic  species.  His  words  are  eloquent  on 
this  point:  "Tragedy  endeavors,  so  far  as  pos- 
sible, to  confine  itself  to  a  single  revolution  of  the 
sun,  or  but  slightly  to  exceed  this  limit."  Author- 
ity, in  the  person  of  the  Italian  critics  of  the 
Renascence,  Cynthio,  Robortelli,  and  Trissino,  as 
Spingarn  has  pointed  out,  stratified  Aristotle's 
empirical  generalization  upon  the  Greek  dramas 
into  an  obligatory  law  for  the  drama  as  a  liter- 
ary species.  Indeed,  they  went  even  further  and 
limited  the  time  for  the  dramatic  action  to  "  one 
artificial  day."  The  generalization  as  to  the  unity 
of  place  is  but  an  analogy  after  the  model  of  unity 
of  time ;  and  was  erected  into  a  "  law  "  by  one  of 
the  most  subtle. and  profound  of  dramatic  critics, 
Castelvetro.  Two  conceptions  of  the  drama  and 
its  influence  underlay  Castelvetro's  theories  in 
regard  to  the  unities.  In  the  first  place,  he  con- 
ceived of  the  theater  as  a  public  institution,  the 
drama  as  democratic  by  nature.  In  the  second 
place,  he  anticipated  the  realistic  temper  of  the 
audience  of  to-day  in  his  conviction  that  people  in 
a  theater  desire  to  see  convention  reduced  to  a 
minimum  and  reality  raised  to  a  maximum.  He 
insisted  that  the  dramatist,  as  a  purveyor  of  ar- 
tistic pleasure,  must  defer  to  the  public  and  its 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     57 

desires.  This  deference  must  be  shown  in  obser- 
vation of  the  principle  now  termed  the  principle 
of  economy  of  attention.  Hence  Castelvetro  form- 
ulated the  principle  of  the  unity  of  place  as  well 
as  that  of  time,  under  the  sincere  conviction  that 
only  by  avoiding  a  change  of  place — with  its 
fancied  distraction  and  dissipation  of  attention — 
might  the  interest  of  the  audience  be  fixed,  con- 
centrated and  maintained. 

These  theories  of  the  unities,  erected  into 
"  principles  "  by  the  guardians  of  the  academic 
school,  obtained  in  the  drama  of  Europe,  with  sin- 
gular and  amazing  effectiveness,  down  to  the  first 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  plausible 
theories  of  the  subtle  Italian  critics  were  dexter- 
ously put  into  practice  by  the  French  dramatists ; 
the  assured  artistic  eminence  of  France  in  the 
drama  exercised  authoritative  influence  upon  other 
European  literatures.  Shakespeare  and  the  Eliza- 
bethans, Lope  de  Vega  and  his  fellow-craftsmen  in 
Spain,  deliberately  disregarded  the  unities,  in  es- 
pecial those  of  time  and  place,  discovering  as  prac- 
tical playwrights  that  no  loss  in  popular  support 
of  their  dramas  was  entailed  through  their  re- 
fusal to  be  subjected  to  the  hampering  restrictions 
of  these  unities.  The  GaHic  spirit,  bred  in  the 
school  of  formalism  and  erecting  the  principle  of 
artistic  correctness  into  a  formula,  rejoiced  in 
working  in  a  carefully  restricted  medium  and  in 


68  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

conquering  the  difficulties  imposed  by  dramatic 
criticism.  When  with  a  burst  of  lyric  fervor  Ro- 
manticism culminated  in  France  with  Victor  Hugo, 
the  anarchic  spirit  of  the  new  libertarianism  burst 
the  bonds  of  the  old  formalism.  In  the  famous 
preface  to  his  Cromwell,  Hugo  formulated  the 
code  of  the  new  freedom  in  dramatic  art,  and 
boldly  disavowed  the  unities  of  time  and  place. 

The  contemporary  dramatists,  from  Ibsen  until 
to-day,  no  longer  accept  the  unities  of  time  and 
place  as  obligatory  laws.  Nevertheless,  in  certain 
important  respects,  the  practice  of  the  contem- 
porary playwright  demonstrates  the  occasional 
efficacy,  if  not  the  necessity,  of  preserving  the 
unity  of  time  and  even  the  unity  of  place.  The 
fancy  of  the  spectator,  it  is  true,  enables  him  to 
effect  the  transition  from  place  to  place  without 
shattering  the  illusion  of  actuality,  provided  the 
unity  of  action  is  fully  maintained.  Yet  a  cer- 
tain intensiveness  of  treatment,  with  a  consequent 
maintenance  of  concentration  of  attention,  is  un- 
questionably advantageous.  This,  in  fact,  is  an 
actual  and  indispensable  quality  of  the  drama  of 
recessive  action.  The  play  representing  the 
culmination  of  a  long  series  of  events  which 
have  transpired  prior  to  its  beginning,  gains  in 
focal  interest  and  directness  of  appeal  when  the 
action  is  confined  to  a  given  place  or  locality. 
Moreover,  the  same  considerations  bespeak  the  ad- 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     59 

vantages  of  the  preservation  of  the  unity  of  time. 
Not  perhaps  in  the  actual  sense;  for  it  is  seldom 
if  ever  the  case  that  the  drama,  in  actual  repre- 
sentation, takes  exactly  the  time  consumed  by  the 
happening  of  these  same  events  in  real  life.  But 
the  contemporary  dramatist  often  employs  the 
principle  of  "  idealized  time  "  with  excellent  effect. 
In  the  speech  of  the  chorus  to  the  public,  in  the 
Prologue  to  King  Henry  V,  Shakespeare  voices  the 
artistic  principle  of  the  true  dramatist  in  regard 
to  idealized  time  when  he  speaks  of 

"...    jumping    o'er    times, 

Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 

Into  an  hour-gkss   ..." 

The  spectator  readily  conspires  to  ignore  brief 
intervals  of  time,  in  which  no  incident  inherently 
relevant  to  the  progress  of  the  action  has  taken 
place.  Indeed,  there  is  a  certain  rational  basis 
for  the  principles  of  the  unities  of  both  time  and 
place.  For  they  may  both  be  regarded  as  sub- 
sidiary features  of  the  unity  of  action.  Unity  of 
action  may,  at  times,  be  best  secured  by  preserving 
the  unities  of  both  time  and  place ;  since  needless 
lapses  of  time  may  weaken  the  attention  of  the 
spectators,  and  auxiliary  incidents  in  a  sub-plot, 
requiring  a  change  of  place,  may  distract  the  in- 
terest of  the  audience  from  the  central  theme  of 
the  drama.  Furthermore,  as  Grillparzer  has  as- 
tutely pointed  out,  the  question  of  time  is  inti- 


60  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

matcly  associated  wltli  action,  dealing  with  the 
feelings  and  the  passions  which  weaken  in  intens- 
ity, force,  and  appeal  with  the  passage  of  undue 
lapses  of  time. 

While  unity  of  place  for  the  entire  drama  is 
no  longer  regarded  as  obligatory  by  the  contem- 
porary dramatist,  it  is  a  generally  accepted  prin- 
ciple that  there  must  be  no  changes  of  scene  within 
a  single  act.  For,  in  the  rigorous  technic  of 
modern  dramaturgy,  each  act  is  conceived  as  a 
unit,  with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  The 
totality  of  effect,  the  unity  of  impression,  is  best 
achieved  from  the  act  which  is  itself  a  unit,  not 
a  concatenation  of  broken  parts.  Nevertheless,  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that,  occasionally,  note- 
worthy dramatic  effects  are  achieved  through 
changes  of  scene  within  an  act.  The  pressure  of 
modern  realistic  methods  and  the  length  of  time 
consumed  in  an  elaborate  resetting  of  the  scene 
make  it  highly  impracticable  to  effect  changes  of 
scene  within  a  single  act.  On  the  Continental 
stage,  this  latter  difficulty  is  avoided  through  the 
employment  of  the  mechanism  of  the  revolving 
platform,  enabling  several  scenes  to  be  set  sim- 
ultaneousl}'  and  obviating  the  necessity  for  dreary 
waits  between  scenes.  But  there  is  reason  to  ques- 
tion the  value  of  the  supposed  advantage  gained 
by  the  use  of  this  mechanism,  for  the  theoretical 
considerations   already  submitted.     The  practice 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     61 

was  long  ago  condemned  by  Corneille ;  and  Lessing 
protested  against  this  strain  upon  the  credulity  of 
the  audience,  caused  by  rapid  scenic  changes  which 
could  only  smack  of  the  miraculous. 

The  one  unity  considered  indispensable — and, 
indeed,  in  a  sense  rightly  understood,  truly  indis- 
pensable— is  known  as  the  "  unity  of  action." 
The  inadequacy  of  the  term  is  peculiarly  apparent 
to-day,  in  view  of  the  uncertainty  of  criticism  in 
regard  to  the  meaning,  purport,  and  content  of 
action.  Aristotle  rightly  points  out  that  the  true 
drama  must  be  an  organic  whole,  to  which  all 
the  constituent  parts  are  vital.  In  so  many  words, 
he  makes  the  apparently  gratuitous  observation 
that  a  dramatic  action  must  have  a  beginning,  a 
middle,  and  an  end.  But  the  entire  structure  of 
the  three  unities  tumbles  to  the  ground  when  we 
realize  that  unity  of  action  is,  no  more  than  the 
unities  of  time  and  place,  a  differentiating  char- 
acteristic of  the  drama.  Every  work  of  art,  no 
matter  of  what  kind,  endowed  with  that  type  of 
structural  unity  which  best  holds  the  concentrated 
attention  of  the  spectator,  possesses  antiseptic 
and  preservative  quality.  It  is  not  only  art  which 
is  concerned  for  the  preservation  of  unity :  it  is 
unity  which  is  concerned  for  the  preservation  of 
art.  In  every  literary  type,  from  the  homeo- 
pathic short  story  to  the  allopathic  novel,  from  the 
dramolet  to  the  epic,  there  is  ever  to  be  gained 


62  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

artistic  advantage  through  the  elimination  of  the 
non-essential. 

A  machine  is  judged  for  its  efficiency  on  the 
basis  of  "  mechanical  advantage,"  which  is  noth- 
ing more  than  the  ratio  of  the  useful  to  the  use- 
less work  it  may  be  made  to  accomplish.  This 
scientific  terminology  is  certainly  applicable  to 
art ;  and  by  analogy  the  "  esthetic  advantage  " 
of  a  work  of  art  may  be  defined  as  the  ratio  of 
those  instrumentalities  which  create  to  those 
which  fail  to  create  the  desired  effects.  Unity 
of  action,  so-called,  is  indispensable  only  in  this 
precise  sense:  the  esthetic  advantage  of  the  work 
of  art  shall  be  of  such  a  nature  that  the  instru- 
mentahties  which  create  shall  vastly  preponderate 
over  those  which  fail  to  create  the  desired  ef- 
fects. 

It  is  clear,  to-day,  that  a  drama  need  not  have 
a  single  action,  with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and 
an  end.  Nor  can  it  possess  unity  of  action  wlien 
it  cannot  be  said  to  contain  action  in  the  sense  suc- 
cinctly expressed  and  narrowly  understood  by 
Aristotle.  There  is  one  word  which  best  expresses 
the  temper  of  modern  art:  Stimmung.  There  is 
no  just  English  equivalent  for  this  term.  Mood 
possesses  the  unfortunate  connotation  of  transi- 
toriness  and  evanescence;  temperament  is  usually 
thought  of  as  a  personal  attribute.  The  creative 
craftsman  of  to-day  may  be  said  to  have  added 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     63 

to  the  three  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action  a 
fourth  unity:  unity  of  impression.  This  type  of 
unity  is  most  effectively  achieved  in  dramas  which, 
on  the  side  of  physical  activity,  are  static  rather 
than  dynamic.  Variety  and  diversity  of  "  action  " 
usually  tend  to  shatter  unity  of  impression.  The 
more  "  action,"  the  less  unity  of  impression. 

In  a  word,  unity  of  impression  is  a  unity  of 
inaction  rather  than  a  unity  of  action.  The  skill 
of  Maeterlinck  in  achieving  unity  of  impression 
in  his  static  dramas  is  a  case  in  point.  Yet  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  Strindberg  in  his 
Dance  of  Death,  Von  Hofmannsthal  in  his  EWk- 
tra,  Wilde  in  his  Salome,  D'Annunzio  in  his  Fran- 
cesca  da  Rimini  have  achieved  a  certain  definite 
unity  of  impression.  And  yet  these  are  plays  by 
no  means  deficient  in  "  action,"  in  the  sense  com- 
monly understood. 

The  modem  play  which  achieves  true  unity  of 
impression  is  suggestively  described  by  the  mu- 
sician as  a  tonal  poem.  One  tone  sounds  through- 
out the  piece.  Such  a  play  would  doubtless  be 
described  by  the  painter  as  a  symphony — a  sym- 
phony in  green,  or  blue,  or  gray,  let  us  say.  A 
chosen  color  scheme,  with  nuances  of  a  single 
primary  color,  may  interpret  the  dominant  mood 
of  the  piece.  The  relation  between  sounds  and 
sensibilities,  between  colors  and  emotions,  is  a  very 
intimate,  though  very  subtle,  relation.    The  mod- 


64  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

em  realization  of  these  intimate  inter-relations 
may  be  said  to  account  for  the  appearance  of  the 
stage  manager.  The  very  professional  terms  in 
current  use  convey  this  growing  sense  of  the  inter- 
relationship of  the  arts.  The  drama  for  the  inti- 
mate theater  is  constructed  after  the  analogy  of 
chamber  music.  The  drama,  enacted  within  the 
field  of  the  picture-frame  of  the  proscenium  arch, 
relies  for  many  of  its  finer  effects  upon  its  qualities 
of  pictorial  appeal.  Many  a  modern  play,  to  em- 
ploy the  phrase  used  by  Wilde  to  describe  his 
novel,  may  be  termed  "  an  essay  in  decorative 
art." 

To-day,  the  creation  of  atmosphere  has  become 
the  business  of  the  dramatist  no  less  than  the 
problem  of  illuminative,  co-operative  setting  has 
become  the  business  of  the  artist-technician. 
Ibsen,  Strindberg,  D'Annunzio,  and  Maeterlinck 
tread  hard  upon  the  heels  of  Craig,  Reinhardt, 
Stanislavsky,  and  Foster  Piatt.  The  author  of 
Hamlet,  of  Macbeth,  was  the  first  and  greatest  of 
the  modern  dramatists  in  the  art  of  achieving 
unity  of  impression  and  continuity  of  effect.  The 
most  tragic  artistic  incident  of  modern  times  is 
the  chronological  mischance  that  the  author  of 
The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Uslier,  the  supreme 
master  of  atmospheric  illusion,  came  too  soon  to 
write  for  the  intimate  art  tlicater  of  to-day,  and 
of  to-morrow.     The  treatment  of  an  incident,  de- 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     65 

spite  the  drastic  pronouncements  of  the  natural- 
ists, can  never  be  a  matter  of  mere  record. 
The  most  extravagant  theorist  of  the  naturalists, 
Zola  himself,  realized  the  personal,  subjective  ele- 
ment of  all  art  in  the  definition  that  a  work  of  art 
is  a  corner  of  life  seen  through  the  prism  of  a 
temperament.  The  transforming  quality  of  art, 
falsely  termed  idealization,  is  the  creation  of  a 
specific  effect,  attained  by  the  artist  himself  and 
esthetically  communicated  to  others  through  the 
prism  of  the  artist's  temperament.  Facts,  then, 
only  afford  the  raw  materials :  they  do  not  impose 
a  specific  mode  of  treatment.  It  is  the  mood  of 
the  artist  which  determines  the  treatment  of  his 
materials. 

A  glance  at  conspicuous  works  of  the  most 
notable  contemporary  dramatists  will  convey, 
better  than  any  theorizing,  a  true  impression  of 
modern  practice  in  regard  to  the  unities  of  time, 
place,  and  action,  and  the  unity  of  impression,  or 
Stimmung,  which  is  the  particular  contribution 
of  modern  dramaturgy.  Ibsen,  to  whom  one  nat- 
urally first  turns  for  revolutionary  advances  in 
technic,  far  from  breaking  away  from  the  unities 
simply  because  they  were  limitations  upon  free- 
dom, conformed  to  them  whenever  his  materials 
and  their  handling  gained  artistically  through 
such  conformity.  The  true  dramatist,  as  the 
French  have  demonstrated,  best  exhibits  his  mas- 


66  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

tery  by  working  within  limits.  The  social  dramas 
of  Ibsen  are,  as  we  shall  sec  later,  culminations 
of  a  complex  crisis ;  and  this  intensiveness  of 
treatment  is  best  secured  by  conforming  to  the 
unities  of  time  and  place,  as  well  as  of  action. 

The  supreme  achievement  of  Ibsen,  the  creation 
of  unity  of  tone  or  mood,  was  best  attained  by 
utilizing  the  other  three  unities  in  a  perfectly  lib- 
eral way.  Unity  of  place  is  preserved  whenever, 
by  so  doing,  the  unity  of  impression  is  best  se- 
cured ;  it  is  violated  with  equal  readiness  when- 
ever the  materials  and  the  chosen  treatment  re- 
quire its  violation.  In  The  League  of  Youth, 
there  are  no  changes  within  an  act  and  the  action 
takes  place  entirely  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
village.  In  The  Pillars  of  Society,  A  DolVs 
House,  and  Ghosts  a  single  room  suffices;  in  An 
Enemy  of  the  People,  three  rooms  in  the  same 
city ;  in  The  Wild  Duck,  two  rooms ;  in  Rosmers- 
holm,  two  rooms  in  the  same  house ;  in  The  Lady 
from  the  Sea,  different  spots  in  the  same  locality ; 
in  Hedda  Gabler,  a  single  room;  in  The  Master 
Builder,  two  rooms  and  the  veranda  of  the  same 
house ;  in  Little  Eyolf,  the  house  and  garden  of  the 
same  country  place ;  and  in  John  Gabriel  Borkman, 
two  stories  of  the  same  dwelling  and  the  front 
yard.  When  We  Dead  Azvaken,  being  a  play  of 
pure  symbolism,  though  involving  the  change  of 
scene  from  the  coast  to  the  mountains,  really  has 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA    67 

no  geography  in  the  strict  sense.  With  only  this 
exception,  which  from  its  nature  cannot  be  re- 
garded as  a  real  exception,  unity  of  place  is  pre- 
served in  all  of  Ibsen's  social  dramas.  There  is 
a  change  of  immediate  place,  whenever  occasion 
demands  ;  never  a  change  of  locality. 

The  same  compression  of  treatment,  artistic 
foreshortening,  which  demands  unity  of  place  de- 
mands even  more  imperatively  unity  of  time. 
Dramas  which  are  convergent  and  culminant  in 
treatment  embody  incidents  which  move  rapidly 
to  a  crisis.  The  action  of  The  Comedy  of  Love, 
which  may  be  regarded  as  the  first  of  Ibsen's  social 
dramas,  requires  less  than  twenty-four  hours ;  and 
of  the  earlier  heroic  dramas,  Lady  Inger  of 
Oestraat  requires  only  five.  Only  a  day  may  in- 
tervene between  the  acts  of  the  comedy  of  intrigue, 
The  League  of  Youth;  The  Pillars  of  Society,  A 
DolVs  House  and  The  Lady  from  the  Sea  require 
about  sixty  hours  each;  Rosmersholm,  fifty-two; 
The  Wild  Duck,  forty ;  Hedda  Gahler  and  Little 
Eyolf,  thirty-six.  For  The  Master  Builder  fewer 
than  twenty-four  hours  suffice;  for  Ghosts  only 
sixteen;  for  John  Gabriel  Borkman  a  bare  three. 
The  last-mentioned  play  exhibits  the  greatest  com- 
pression in  time.  The  time  required  for  producing 
the  play,  on  account  of  the  changes  of  scene  be- 
tween the  acts  (unless  the  revolving  stage  is  em- 
ployed), is   actually  greater  than  the  time  con- 


68  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

sumcd  by  the  events  represented,  which  are  of 
unbroken  sequence.  Even  An  Enemy  of  the  Peo- 
ple, in  which  the  dramatic  action  conditions  dehiy, 
may  be  imagined  to  transpire  within  the  space  of 
less  than  two  days.  It  must  not,  however,  be 
inferred,  from  the  above  examples,  that  Ibsen  was 
hampered  by  the  restrictions  of  the  unities  of  time 
and  place.  In  historic  and  fantastic  dramas,  fre- 
quent changes  of  place  and  long  lapses  of  time  are 
entirely  legitimate ;  and  Ibsen  freely  uses  ten 
changes  of  scene  in  The  Pretenders;  there  are 
seven  or  eight  scenes  in  Brand;  in  Peer  Gynt  ap- 
proximately forty !  The  Pretenders,  Brand,  and 
Emperor  and  Galilean  cover  long  periods  of  time, 
counted  in  years ;  and  Peer  Gynt  covers  the  quin- 
decennium  of  a  lifetime. 

The  greatest  freedom  and  variety,  in  the  matter 
of  time  and  place,  is  exhibited  in  the  works  of  con- 
temporary dramatists.  The  most  conspicuous 
break  with  traditions  is  Bennett's  Milestones, 
which  deals  successively  with  three  successive  gen- 
erations. No  one  consistently  shows  so  close  an 
observance  of  these  unities  as  Ibsen ;  indeed,  no 
dramatist  since  Ibsen  has  exhibited  so  com- 
plete a  mastery  or  so  persistent  an  employ- 
ment of  the  analytic  method.  Yet  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  in  many  of  tlie  most  significant 
works  of  leading  dramatists,  especially  in  social 
dramas  showing  a  culmination  or  closely  knit  com- 


SCIENCE  AND  P^HE  NEW  DRAMA    69 

pound  of  motives,  the  unities  of  both  time  and 
place  are  observed  with  scrupulous  care.  Obvi- 
ously the  reason  for  this  is  inherent  in  the  subject 
and  its  just  mode  of  treatment,  not  in  any  servile 
adherence  on  the  dramatist's  part  to  artificial 
"  rules."  Shaw's  Candida  requires  for  its  action 
only  a  single  room,  and  about  twelve  hours ;  so 
also  does  Strindberg's  The  Father — though  each 
is  handled  synthetically.  The  action  of  Giacosa's 
Hapless  Love  transpires  in  a  single  room  within 
a  single  day.  In  certain  of  the  purely  natural- 
istic dramas  of  Hauptmann,  designed  to  present 
a  consecutive  series  of  events,  the  unities  of 
both  time  and  place  are  rationally  observed. 
In  Das  Friedensfest,  notably,  the  tragedy  is  en- 
acted in  a  single  room  during  the  latter  half  of 
a  single  day.  In  the  most  notable  of  Galsworthy's 
dramas.  Strife,  "  the  action  takes  place  on  Feb- 
ruary 7th  between  the  hours  of  noon  and  six  in 
the  afternoon,  close  to  the  Trenartha  Tin  Plate 
Works,  on  the  borders  of  England  and  Wales, 
where  a  strike  has  been  in  progress  throughout 
the  winter."  In  The  Two  Mr.  Wetherhys  of  St. 
John  Hankin,  the  scene  is  Mr.  James  Wetherby's 
house,  and  the  action  takes  some  twenty  hours, 
from  the  afternoon  of  one  day  to  the  afternoon  of 
the  next.  These,  and  innumerable  other  illustra- 
tions from  the  plays  of  modern  dramatists  which 
might  be  given,  only  go  to  demonstrate  the  true 


70  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

rationale  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  their 
genuine  efficacy  in  the  compact  handling  of  cul- 
minant situations. 

Certain  substitutes  for  the  "  ideal  "  treatment 
of  time,  common  in  the  Continental  drama  of  the 
last  century,  have  been  employed  with  excellent 
effect  by  certain  contemporary  dramatists.  In 
The  Two  Mr.  Wetherhys  "  the  curtain  is  dropped 
for  a  moment  halfway  through  Act  II  to  represent 
the  lapse  of  three  hours,"  the  same  device  is  em- 
ployed by  Pinero  in  Iris,  by  Barker  in  Waste,  by 
Galsworthy  in  The  Silver  Box.  The  most  signifi- 
cant employment  of  the  unity  of  time,  as  a  new 
technical  treatment,  is  the  representation  of  an 
action  which  takes  a  longer  time  in  production  than 
would  the  events  or  conversations  in  actual  life. 
Ibsen  furnished  an  illustration  of  this  in  a  por- 
tion of  John  Gabriel  Borhman.  Another  technical 
innovation  is  the  "  scene  individable,"  the  action 
in  time,  though  broken  by  curtains,  being  con- 
tinuous. Kennedy's  The  Servant  in  the  House,  a 
conspicuous  illustration,  was  a  pioneer  in  the  em- 
ployment of  this  technical  device  in  English 
drama.  Modern  dramatists,  notably  Strauss  and 
von  Hofmannsthal  in  Elektra,  Strindberg  in  Cred- 
itors, Shaw  in  Getting  Married,  to  mention  a  few 
examples,  exhibit  a  scene  in  which  the  time  is  un- 
broken. In  the  case  of  the  last-mentioned  play, 
the  curtain  was  lowered  twice  during  the  course 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA    71 

of  the  production — not  because  the  action  in- 
volved any  intervals,  but  only  as  a  concession  to 
the  need  for  felaxation  on  the  part  of  the  audi- 
ence, liable  to  fatigue  through  the  strain  of  unduly 
prolonged  attention. 

Dramatists  like  Hauptmann  and  Shaw,  after 
Ibsen,  have  dispensed  with  the  division  of  acts  into 
scenes;  and  it  is  but  the  next  step  in  technical 
advance  to  abolish  division  of  a  play  into  acts. 
In  the  preface  to  3Iiss  Julia,  Strindberg  says :  "  I 
have  tried  to  abolish  the  division  into  acts.  And 
I  have  done  so  because  I  have  come  to  fear  that 
our  decreasing  capacity  for  illusion  might  be  un- 
favorably affected  by  intermissions  during  which 
the  spectator  would  have  time  to  reflect  and  to 
get  away  from  the  suggestive  influence  of  the 
author-hypnotist.  My  play  will  probably  last  an 
hour  and  a  half,  and  as  it  is  possible  to  listen  that 
length  of  time,  or  longer,  to  a  lecture,  a  sermon, 
or  a  debate,  I  have  imagined  that  a  theatrical  per- 
formance could  not  become  fatiguing  in  the  same 
time.  ,  .  .  My  hope  is  still  for  a  public  educated 
to  the  point  when  it  can  sit  through  a  whole- 
evening  performance  in  a  single  act.  But  that 
point  cannot  be  reached  without  a  great  deal  of 
experimentation."  The  most  remarkable  result 
of  such  experimentation  is  the  opera  EleJitra.  As 
conducted  by  Strauss  himself  in  Berlin,  Elehtra 
gave  me  the  most  tremendous  emotional  experience. 


72  THE  CHANGING  DRAiVIA 

It  leaves  one  emotionally  drenched,  physically  ex- 
hausted. The  dramatic  evocation  of  mood,  sus- 
tained without  intermission  for  two  hours  and 
more,  tries  one  to  the  extreme  limit  of  esthetic 
emotional  endurance. 

The  age  in  which  we  live,  subject  to  the  influence 
of  scientific  research,  is  responsible  in  great 
measure  for  the  intensive  treatment  of  themes  in 
modern  dramatic  practice.  The  vast  extension  of 
knowledge,  the  discovery  of  innumerable  facts, 
laws,  and  principles  governing  the  phenomena  of 
human  life,  have  compelled  concentration  upon 
the  subjects  of  our  examination.  The  telescope 
of  the  older  epic  poet  has  been  exchanged  for  the 
microscope  of  the  modern  dramatist.  It  is  just 
because  modern  life  opens  for  us  such  panoramic 
vistas  and  widens  so  extensively  the  horizon  of 
human  possibility  that  we  are  forced  to  restrict 
ourselves  to  a  limited  field  of  vision.  It  is  only 
through  a  microscopic  examination  of  a  small 
group  of  factors  operating  within  a  restricted 
field  that  we  are  enabled  to  arrive  at  exact  knowl- 
edge. At  the  same  time,  there  is  involved  in  the 
examination  an  exhaustive  knowledge  of  all  ante- 
cedent factors  in  the  evolutionary  chain  of  causa- 
tion. It  is  for  these  reasons,  primarily,  that  Ibsen, 
the  greatest  technician  in  the  modern  dramatic 
movement,  has  consistently  employed  in  his  social 
dramas  the  analytic  treatment  which   is   equiva- 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     73 

lent,   for  this   form,   to   a   genuine   technical  dis- 
covery. 

There  are,  to  be  sure,  two  possibilities  always 
open  to  the  dramatist :  the  synthetic  treatment,  in 
which  the  action  is  begun,  continued,  and  com- 
pleted entirely  within  the  limits  of  the  play  itself ; 
and  the  analytic  treatment,  in  which  the  action 
shown  is  the  culmination  of  a  long  series  of  events, 
the  outcome  of  external  actions  and  internal  de- 
velopments. Rudolph  von  Gottschall  once  said 
that  the  Greek  tragedies  were  really  only  the  fifth 
acts  of  tragedies.  The  dictum,  only  mediately 
true  for  Greek  tragedy,  is  the  distinctive  charac- 
teristic of  the  social  dramas  of  Ibsen.  The 
analytic  treatment  is  as  old  as  drama  itself; 
classic  illustrations  range  all  the  way  from  the 
(Edipus  of  Sophocles  and  the  Hamlet  of  Shake- 
speare to  the  Maria  Stuart  of  Schiller  and  Der 
Zerhrochene  Krug  of  Kleist.  Yet  at  no  time  in 
the  past  has  any  dramatist,  or  any  group  of 
dramatists,  subjected  the  dramatic  art  to  analyt- 
ical treatment  for  the  creation  of  a  chosen  dra- 
matic type.  Of  the  Greek  tragedies  known  to  us, 
those  treated  analytically  are  notable  as  excep- 
tions, not  as  types ;  Shakespeare,  free  spirit  sub- 
ject to  unities  neither  of  time  nor  of  place,  various, 
many-angled,  discursive  with  all  the  arts  of  the 
rhetorician,  the  lyric  and  the  epic  poet,  employed 
the  synthetic  treatment  almost  invariably,  as  the 


74  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

technic  best  suited  for  the  exhibition  of  his  dra- 
matic fables. 

When  we  come  to  Ibsen,  the  scientific  spirit  of 
the  age,  with  its  demand  for  microscopic  analysis 
in  the  interest  of  exact  truth,  immediate,  particu- 
laristic, compels  the  employment  of  a  purely 
analytic  treatment.  During  the  course  of  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  complex  problems  raised  by  Ibsen's 
biography,  which  I  had  somewhat  hesitantly  un- 
dertaken, I  once  asked  Dr.  Sigurd  Ibsen  if  his 
father  ever  acknowledged  technical  indebtedness  to 
any  dramatist  who  preceded  him.  The  answer 
was  significant.  "  I  never  heard  my  father  ac- 
knowledge that  he  owed  such  a  debt  to  any  one," 
replied  Dr.  Ibsen — "with  but  a  single  exception: 
Friedrich  Hcbbcl."  If  we  study  Hebbel's  Julia, 
for  example,  conspicuous  alike  for  analytic  treat- 
ment and  narrative  technic,  we  may  fully  realize 
that  Hebbel,  on  the  technical  side,  was  Ibsen's  im- 
mediate forerunner  and  inspiration.  In  his  social 
dramas,  Ibsen  aimed  not  at  the  presentation  of 
situations  as  situations,  but  at  a  re-presentation 
of  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  states  of  the  souls 
of  his  characters.  He  achieved  severely  realistic 
transcripts  of  life  by  such  vital  projections.  His 
plays  are  not  manipulations,  but  creations  of  char- 
acter— the  inevitable  events  of  an  attitude  toward 
life,  a  point  of  view,  a  frame  of  mind,  a  tempera- 
mental stamp.     As  Brandes  put  it:  "The  most 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA    75 

esteemed  German  dramatists  who  preceded  him, 
notably  Friedrich  Hcbbel,  came  to  be  regarded 
merely  as  his  forerunners.  The  French  dram- 
atists, who  in  his  youth  were  masters  of  the  Eu- 
ropean stage,  Alexandre  Dumas  and  Emile 
Augier,  became  antiquated  in  the  presence  of  his 
art.  ,  .  .  With  them  there  is  still  an  intrigue  of 
the  old-fashioned  type.  One  is  told  something 
from  which  he  reacts.  Such  intrigues  are  never 
employed  by  Ibsen  after  the  period  of  his  youthful 
drama,  Lady  Inger.  The  essential  features  of  the 
inner  life  of  his  characters  are  revealed.  A  veil  is 
lifted  and  we  observe  the  peculiar  stamp  of  the 
personality.  A  second  veil  is  lifted,  and  we  dis- 
tinguish its  past.  A  third  veil  is  drawn  aside,  and 
we  discover  the  profoundest  secrets  of  its  nature." 
The  supreme  technical  achievement  of  Ibsen,  one 
may  fairly  say  his  supreme  technical  innovation, 
has  been  the  identification  of  the  action  with  the 
exposition.  It  was  that  profound  student  of  dra- 
matic art,  Friedrich  Hebbel,  who  recognized  in 
the  separation  of  the  action  and  the  exposition 
the  principal  barrier  between  art  and  life.  In  the 
analytic  dramas  of  Ibsen,  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
"  preparation  "  in  the  French  sense,  no  such  thing 
as  "  exposition  "  in  the  old  meaning.  They  are 
replaced  by  explication — the  careful  disentangling 
of  the  interlacing  threads  which  constitute  the 
dramatic  fabric  but  stream  out  endlessly  into  the 


76  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

past.  Until  Ibsen  had  freed  himself  from  the  influ- 
ence of  the  French  school,  he  continued  to  employ 
the  purely  synthetic  treatment,  in  which  the  action 
develops  itself  before  the  audience.  This  is  true  of 
The  Pretenders,  The  Comedy  of  Love,  Peer  Gynt, 
Emperor  and  Galilean,  The  League  of  Youth. 
The  method  is  employed  even  in  one  of  the  later 
dramas,  An  Enemy  of  the  People, — a  singular  cir- 
cumstance which  may  be  explained  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  a  polemic  piece,  a  play  of  external  action, 
and  was  written  in  half  the  time  Ibsen  usually  em- 
ploj'ed  in  writing  a  drama.  A  blending,  a  har- 
monization, of  the  two  methods  is  employed  in 
Th£  Pillars  of  Society,  A  Doll's  House,  The  Lady 
from  the  Sea,  Hedda  Gabler,  The  Master  Builder, 
Little  Eyolf,  and  When  We  Dead  Awaken;  the 
past  and  the  present  play  nearly  equal  parts  in 
conditioning  and  controlling  the  outcome.  But  in 
Ghosts,  Rosmersholm,  The  Wild  Duck,  and  John 
Gabriel  Borkman,  all  the  fundamental  facts  have 
already  transpired  before  the  opening  of  the  play ; 
and  those  episodes  which  appear  before  us  are 
the  necessary  consequences  of  the  earlier  events. 
These  dramas  of  explication,  sometimes  entitled 
the  drama  of  the  ripened  situation,  are  master- 
pieces in  the  peculiar  technic  which  Ibsen  per- 
fected: the  unveiling,  during  the  course  of  the 
dramatic  development,  of  the  entire  soul-histories 
of  the  characters   through  their  mutual  confes- 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     77 

sions ;  and  the  disclosure  by  this  means  of  the 
entire  fabric  of  the  past  as  the  determining  and 
omnipotent  force.  This  procedure  I  prefer  to  de- 
scribe as  the  technic  of  devoilement.  If  we  slightly 
change  the  figure  and  employ  an  English  word, 
we  may  describe  it  as  the  technic  of  denudation. 
In  a  well-known  letter  to  Goethe,  Schiller  points 
out  as  a  distinct  advantage  of  the  recessive  pro- 
cedure that  the  past,  since  it  is  irrevocable,  is 
more  truly  terrifying  than  the  present,  with  possi- 
bilities of  freedom  of  choice.  It  may  be  true,  as 
Schiller  thought,  that  we  are  more  deeply  moved 
by  the  dread  that  something  may  have  happened 
in  the  past  than  by  the  anticipatory  fear  that 
something  may  occur  in  the  future.  Certainly 
there  is  a  steady  deepening  of  the  horror  in  the 
convergent  series  of  disclosures  unmasked  by  the 
frenzied  King  CEdipus,  or  revealed  in  the  confes- 
sions of  Helen  Alving. 

The  real  innovation  achieved  by  Ibsen,  Haupt- 
mann,  and  the  German  naturalists  was  the  em- 
ployment of  the  technical  methods  of  fiction  in  the 
creation  of  the  new  drama.  Both  the  convergent 
treatment  of  the  short  story  and  the  narrative 
discursiveness  of  the  novel  were  freely  utilized.  It 
will  be  recalled,  as  a  conspicuous  illustration,  that 
Hauptmann  dedicated  his  first  drama  to  "  Bjarne 
P.  Holmsen,  most  distinguished  of  naturalists, 
author   of   Papa   Hamlet  " — the   pseudonym    for 


78  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  collaborators  Arno  Holz  and  Johannes 
Schlaf  in  a  cycle  of  remarkable  short  stories. 
One  notes  with  interest,  in  the  contemporary 
drama,  the  presence  of  epic,  in  contradistinction 
to  purely  dramatic,  qualities  as  a  consequence  of 
the  influence  of  fiction.  The  most  striking  super- 
ficial illustration  is  the  elaborate  "  stage-direc- 
tions "  of  the  realistic  and  naturalistic  dramas — 
let  us  say  of  Shaw  and  Hauptmann.  In  reality 
these  are  no  longer  "  stage  directions  " :  they  are 
minute  scenic  descriptions  and  cliaracter  delinea- 
tions. For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
drama,  the  stage-direction  becomes  an  intrinsic 
part  of  the  play.  The  information  contained  in 
these  scenic  descriptions  and  character  delinea- 
tions in  reality  constitutes  a  wealth  of  epic  detail. 
A  further  feature  to  be  noted  in  connection 
with  the  new  technic  is  the  new  t^'pe  of  exposition 
which  I  have  described  as  explication.  In  the 
drama  of  the  ripened  situation,  the  characters  are 
already  fully  developed  and  only  await  some  slight 
event  to  produce  the  catastrophe.  Since  the  action 
is  culminant,  it  must  be  continuous  and  generally 
rapid.  In  order  to  reveal  all  the  antecedent 
events,  essential  to  a  true  comprehension  of  the 
characters  and  the  story,  the  dramatist  is  driven 
to  employ  the  convenient  and  familiar  technic  of 
the  novel.  Compelled  to  discard  the  approved 
French  technic  of  an  initial  act  of  exposition,  the 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA    79 

modern  realist  slowly  and  only  by  degrees, 
throughout  the  entire  piece,  skillfully  unravels  the 
interwoven  threads  of  antecedent  happening.  Nar- 
rative here  begins  to  supersede  "  action  "  in  the 
modern  drama.  For  narration  of  dramatic  in- 
tensity and  pictorial  appeal  is  needed  effectively  to 
reveal  the  long  chain  of  causation  which  has  led 
to  the  crisis  exhibited  in  the  drama  itself.  Narra- 
tion in  dialogue  form,  of  scenes  dramatic  in  effect, 
thus  necessarily  supersedes,  in  large  measure, 
direct  dramatic  presentation.  The  method  of  fic- 
tion in  sustained  suspense  is  freely  employed  by 
the  dramatist  of  the  ripened  situation.  The  most 
significant  of  all  the  revelations  arising  out  of  the 
antecedent  events  is  reserved  until  the  conclusion 
of  the  drama.  The  penalty  of  the  method  is 
revealed  in  the  consideration  that  the  complex 
web  of  antecedent  events,  which  can  only  be  con- 
v'eyed  to  our  senses  through  narration,  becomes 
vastly  more  important,  dramatically  as  well  as 
determinatively,  than  the  events  of  the  actual 
drama  itself.  From  the  standpoint  of  technic, 
we  have  here  another  type  of  illustration  of  the 
mutation  theory  of  De  Vries.  Scientifically  re- 
garded, the  drama  of  recessive  action  arises  from 
the  projection  of  the  explicative  methods  of  fic- 
tion into  the  field  of  the  drama  treated  as  pure 
culmination. 

Great    as    is    the    technical    contribution    of 


80  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Ibsen,   especially   in   the    case    of   the   drama    of 
explication    with    analytic    handling,    there    are 
tremendous  difficulties  in  the  way  of  its  success- 
ful   employment.     Indeed,    Ibsen    has    had    few 
followers   in   the   successful    employment    of   this 
form.     A    very    fine    specimen    of    the    analytic 
treatment    is    Sudcrmann's    Heimat,    which    may 
be   regarded   as   a  widening   series   of  successive 
crises.     A  true  disciple  of  Ibsen  in  his  technical 
methods  is  the  young  Dane,  Hjalmar  Bergstrom, 
whose  Karen  Borneman  is  a  signal  specimen  of 
the  drama  of  devoilement .     Neither  Zola's  Renee 
(the   dramatization    of  La   Curee)    nor    Therese 
Raquin  are  successful  treatments,  from  the  dram- 
aturgic   standpoint,  of  the  nemesis    of  heredity. 
With  all  its  fine  qualities,  Hauptmann's  Vor  Son- 
nenaufgang  falls  far  short  of  being  a  masterpiece. 
Ibsen  is  his  ovna  best  imitator  in  RosmersJiolm  and 
Hedda  Gahler;  and  it  \a  noteworthy  that  the  lead- 
ing figure  in  the  former  play,  which  after  the  fash- 
ion   of    Ghosts    Ibsen    intended    to   name    White 
Horses,   is  the  ancestral  spirit   of  the  house   of 
Rosmer.     In  Miss  Julia,  Strindberg  has  achieved 
a  masterpiece  in  the  particular  form  employed — 
although  here  the  influence  of  the  past  is  insuf- 
ficiently intcr-relatcd  with  the  lively  action  of  the 
present.     Shaw's  Mrs.  Warren  s  Profession,  in  his 
case  marked  by  the  employment  of  severe  economy 
of  means,  is  a  true  drama  of  explication,  not  lack- 


SCIENCE  AND  THE  NEW  DRAMA     81 

ing  in  a  certain  restraint  in  treatment ;  but,  driven 
by  his  ineradicable  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  Shaw 
has  greatly  weakened  the  play's  effect  by  shatter- 
ing unity  of  impression  through  the  gruesome, 
cynical  levity  of  Frank.  Ibsen  alone  has  exhibited 
in  its  ripened  perfection  the  form  of  drama  best 
adapted  to  the  treatment  of  heredity.  He  alone 
has  stamped  upon  us  in  the  theatre  the  dread  con- 
viction, as  voiced  by  Wilde :  "  Heredity  is  Nemesis 
without  her  mask.  It  is  the  last  of  the  Fates  and 
the  most  terrible.  It  is  the  only  one  of  the  gods 
whose  real  name  we  know." 

There  is  one  other  weakness  of  the  drama  of 
explication,  with  purely  analytic  treatment, 
which,  in  all  probability,  best  suffices  to  explain 
the  lack  of  cosmopolitan  appeal  in  the  theater  of 
Ibsen's  supreme  technical  achievements.  This 
type  of  drama  involves  the  elimination  of  vivid 
action,  the  abandonment  of  the  continuous  suc- 
cession of  slight  novelties  in  event,  calculated  to 
hold  attention  and  win  the  throng.  Since  only 
the  culminant  situation  is  exhibited,  a  large  part 
of  the  "  action  "  must  consist  in  explication — 
achieved  in  more  or  less  natural  ways  through 
mutual  confessions  in  the  conversation  of  the 
characters.  Persons  who  have  not  seen  each  other 
in  a  long  time  are  more  or  less  naturally  brought 
together;  and  our  knowledge  of  the  past  is  de- 
rived through  the  conversations  in  which  they  en- 


82  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

lighten  each  other  over  the  events  which  have 
transpired  since  their  last  meeting.  The  "  ex- 
position "  of  the  conventional  drama  of  former 
time  is  thus  replaced  by  retrospective  narrative, 
dexterously  couched  in  the  hesitant,  exclamatory, 
broken  dialogue  of  normal  daily  life.  The  retro- 
spective narrative,  though  referring  to  antecedent 
events,  is  animated,  accusatory — enlivened 
throughout  with  gestures,  hints,  implications  rich 
in  dramatic  suggestiveness.  Nevertheless,  this 
continual,  enforced  reference  to  the  antecedent 
events  gives  a  distinctly  retrospective  cast  to  such 
dramas.  The  drama  loves  action  more  than  con- 
templation, regnant  prophecy  more  than  mellow 
retrospection.  Ibsen  has  written  for  an  age  which 
has  passed  the  first  flush  of  youth.  The  drama 
of  reminiscence,  though  perhaps  the  most  difficult 
of  all  forms,  is  a  drama  with  its  face  resolutely 
turned  toward  the  past.  The  predilection  of  the 
great  public  is  for  the  drama  of  anticipation  and 
prophecy,  buoyantly  facing  the  future. 


IV 


THE  NEW  FORMS— REALISM  AND  THE 
PULPIT  STAGE 


"May  we  then  secure  a  theater  where  we  may  be  hor- 
rified over  the  horrible,  laugh  over  the  laughable,  play 
with  the  playful;  where  we  can  see  everything  and  not  be 
offended,  when  we  see  what  lies  concealed  behind  theo- 
logical and  esthetic  veils,  even  if  the  old  conventional 
laws  must  be  broken;  may  we  secure  a  free  theater, 
where  we  shall  have  freedom  for  all  things  save  to  have 
no  talent  and  to  be  a  hypocrite  or  a  fool!  " — ^August 
Stbindbebg. 


From  out  of  the  welter  and  mass  of  modern 
dramatic  literature,  certain  general  principles 
may  be  disengaged  through  a  careful  analysis  of 
the  works  of  the  leading  dramatic  artists.  This 
careful  analysis  suffices  to  exhibit  a  certain  num- 
ber of  dramatic  forms  which  may  be  denominated 
new,  not  in  the  sense  of  merely  possessing  novelty, 
but  in  the  exact  sense  that  they  are  forms  hitherto 
unrealized  in  the  history  of  dramatic  art.  It  shall 
be  our  concern,  then,  to  classify  and  distinguish 
these  distinctively  new  types  of  drama. 

If  we  abandon  for  the  nonce  the  employment  of 
the  words  realism  and  naturalism,  because  of  their 
uncertainty  and  vagueness,  I  think  we  shall  see 


84.  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

that  the  most  distinctive  form  of  drama  contrib- 
uted by  contemporary  art  is  what  may  be  termed 
the  drama  of  immediate  actuality.  There  were 
two  prime  reasons  why  the  earlier  dramatists 
failed  to  create  such  a  type.  In  the  first  place, 
the  theater — which  Shaw  has  aptly  defined  as  "  the 
last  sanctuary  of  unreality  " — was  conceived  as 
the  arena  for  the  violent,  the  exceptional,  the  ad- 
ventitious, the  coincidental.  The  more  startling 
the  external  event,  the  greater  the  success.  Dis- 
guises, transformations,  substitutions  lent  an  air 
of  quaint  attractiveness  to  the  plays  of  the 
Greeks,  the  Romans,  of  the  French  classicists, 
and  of  the  Elizabethans.  The  denouement  of 
countless  plays  was  made  to  turn  upon  a  happily 
discovered,  but  hitherto  unsuspected,  fact  which 
did  not  untie  but,  Alexander-like,  only  cut  the 
Gordian  knot — making  providential  provision  for 
every  character  and  dismissing  the  audience  with 
a  delightful  sense  of  justice  poetically  adminis- 
tered. In  the  second  place,  there  was  an  instinc- 
tive reaction  against  the  policy  of  approaching 
too  close  to  real  life.  The  psychological  drama 
of  the  past,  with  its  exhaustive  scarchings  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  the  profundities  of 
the  human  soul,  erected  one  last  barrier  between 
the  audience  and  the  scene.  This  barrier  was  the 
locale,  the  environmental  circle  within  which  the 
characters    moved.     The    characters,    even   when 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE      85 

they  were  modern  in  tendency  and  contemporary 
in  conception,  were  placed  in  scenes  far  remote, 
both  geographically  and  temporally,  from  the 
audience.  In  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  a  ro- 
mantic setting  was  chosen,  because  of  its  likelihood 
to  lure  the  audience  away  from  the  oppressing 
sense  of  actuality  abundantly  afforded  by  real 
life.  Strange  and  outlandish  countries — the 
stranger  and  the  more  outlandish  the  better! — 
antique  castles,  grim  prisons,  gloomy  monas- 
teries, desert  islands — these  were  the  ancient  prop- 
erties with  which  the  dramatic  figures,  even  when 
animated  by  contemporary  freshness  and  vital  mod- 
ern temperament,  were  forcibly  endowed.  Whether 
the  complications  were  bizarre,  outre,  and  adven- 
titious; whether  the  setting  was  remote  and  fan- 
tastic; whether  the  actions  were  violent,  brutal, 
barbaric — the  result  was  the  same:  to  fulfil  the 
fundamental  prerequisites  of  romance.  These 
fundamental  prerequisites  were  the  employment  of 
a  continuous  succession  of  novelties ;  the  constant 
pictorial  appeal  to  fancy  and  imagination ;  and 
the  general  purpose  to  transport  the  audience  to 
a  realm  more  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  won- 
derful than  the  garish  world  of  tons  les  jours. 
In  regard  to  this  conventional  drama,  Maeter- 
linck has  happily  said :  "  Indeed,  when  I  go  to  the 
theater,  I  feel  as  though  I  were  spending  a  few 
hours  with  my  ancestors,  who  conceived  life  as 


86  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

something  that  was  primitive,  arid,  and  brutal. 
...  I  am  shown  a  deceived  husband  killing  his 
wife,  a  woman  poisoning  her  lover,  a  son  avenging 
his  father,  a  father  slaughtering  his  children,  chil- 
dren putting  their  father  to  death,  murdered 
kings,  ravished  virgins,  imprisoned  citizens — in  a 
word,  all  the  sublimity  of  tradition,  but  alas,  how 
superficial  and  material!  Blood,  surface-tears, 
and  death !  " 

With  the  advent  of  Ibsen,  we  mark  the  tri- 
umphant creation  of  a  drama  of  immediate  actu- 
ality. His  fundamental  data  were  two :  people  of 
to-day ;  time,  the  present.  His  drama  is  a  com- 
bination of  the  older  forms,  in  the  sense  that  he 
avoided  the  unreal  features  of  one,  the  unnatural 
features  of  the  other.  Under  tlie  ancient  and 
classic  formulas,  unreal  people  were  placed  in  nat- 
ural situations ;  real  people  were  placed  in  un- 
natural situations ;  and  not  infrequently,  unreal 
people  were  placed  in  unnatural  situations.  Ibsen 
set  himself  the  severest  of  tasks :  the  placing  of 
real  people  in  natural  situations.  By  real  people, 
he  understood  people  of  to-day — of  his  own  time, 
country,  racial  feeling,  social  hereditament.  Nor 
was  he  content  with  observation  alone  as  the 
artist's  touchstone  of  reality.  He  insisted  that 
the  artist  must  be  "  extremely  careful  in  discrim- 
inating between  what  one  has  observed  and  what 
one  has  experienced."     Only  this  last,  he  main- 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE      87 

tains,  can  be  "  the  theme  for  creative  work."  If 
we  attend  strictly  to  this,  he  says,  "  no  every-day, 
commonplace  subject  will  be  too  prosaic  to  be 
sublimated  into  poetry."  And  perhaps  the  most 
significant  artistic  utterance  he  ever  made — the 
watchword  of  all  true  "  realism  " — is  this :  "  And 
what  is  it  then  that  constitutes  a  poet.''  As  for 
me,  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  realized  that  to 
be  a  poet,  that  is  chiefly  to  see,  but  mark  well,  to 
see  in  such  a  manner  that  the  thing  seen  is  per- 
ceived hy  his  audience  just  as  the  poet  saw  it. 
But  thus  is  seen  and  thus  is  appreciated  that 
which  has  been  lived  through.  And  as  regards  the 
thing  zchich  has  been  lived  through,  that  is  just 
the  secret  of  the  literature  of  modern  times.  All 
that  I  have  written  these  last  ten  years  (1864-74), 
I  have,  mentally,  lived  through.  But  no  poet 
lives  through  anything  isolated.  What  he  lives 
through  all  his  countrymen  live  through  together 
with  him.  For  if  that  were  not  so,  what  would 
establish  the  bridge  of  understanding  between  the 
producing  and  the  receiving  mind?  " 

Such  a  supreme  test  necessarily  requires  that 
the  dramatist  deal  with  people  of  his  own  world,  of 
his  own  time,  of  his  oym  race.  The  drama  of 
immediate  actuality  accomplishes  at  once  this 
prime  purpose:  the  identification  of  the  audience 
with  the  play.  As  you  witness  a  modern  play  of 
Ibsen,  of  Bjornson,  of  Hauptmann,  you  recognize 


88  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

yourself  in  tlie  characters  and  your  life  in  theirs. 
And  this,  after  all,  is  tlie  supreme  criterion  for 
dramatic  "  realism."  It  is  this  quality  of  "  recog- 
nition "  that  makes  memorable  one  of  Clyde 
Fitch's  plays,  The  Truth,  with  its  almost  di- 
aphanous realism  and  keen  sense  for  local  color. 
In  the  theater,  are  we  the  spectators,  separated 
from  the  dramatic  characters  by  a  barrier  of  the 
footlights.''  Is  this  a  mere  spectacle  that  is  being 
set  before  us,  to  amuse,  to  cajole,  to  flatter,  with 
ancient  tricks  of  structure  and  modern  novelties 
of  invention.'*  Surely  not,  if  the  realist  has,  in 
Ibsen's  phrase,  "  established  the  bridge  of  under- 
standing between  the  producing  and  the  viewing 
mind."  Then,  indeed,  can  we  live,  vitally,  in- 
lensel}',  in  the  scene  being  enacted  before  us,  iden- 
tify ourselves  with  the  characters,  and  suffer, 
laugh,  rejoice  with  them  as  with  the  living  people 
of  our  own  world.  We  are  not  enticed  into  lend- 
ing our  attention :  we  give  ourselves  up  utterly  to 
the  experience,  forgetting  that  there  are  foot- 
lights, curtain,  or  indeed  that  we  are  in  a  theater 
at  all.  After  A  DolVs  House  the  bold  bloodshed 
and  gaudy  theatricism  of  the  past  imposed  upon 
Ibsen  never  again.  The  violent,  the  exceptional 
moment  of  life  has  yielded  place  in  the  theater  to 
the  claims  of  present  actuality — life  itself — with 
its  problems  of  predestination  and  freedom,  will 
and  inclination,  passion  and  restraint. 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE   89 

Just  as  the  modern  biologist  concerns  himself 
with  the  life  forms  of  animals  and  the  evolution 
of  types,  so  the  modern  realist  scientifically  studies 
the  life  forms  of  human  beings  and  the  evolution 
of  certain  psychological,  social,  and  ethical  types. 
Especially  is  this  procedure  notable  and  conspicu- 
ous in  the  denotement  of  the  modern  woman.  No 
longer  are  we  shown  women  as  "  fantastic  sugar 
dolls,"  goddesses  upon  pedestals,  angelic  saints 
aureoled  with  cloistral  sanctity,  to  be  worshiped 
from  afar.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  will  she  con- 
tinue to  be  portrayed  as  the  domestic  drudge,  the 
plaything,  and  the  toy  of  the  average  selfish  and 
sensual  man.  Ibsen  was  the  first  dramatic  realist 
to  force  upon  modern  consciousness  the  immediate 
realization  of  to-day  that  woman  is  a  human  being, 
with  character  as  broad  and  deep,  with  rights  as 
sweeping  and  sacred,  as  those  of  man. 

It  may,  with  considerable  justice,  be  urged  that 
Ibsen  has  never  obtained  popular  success  in 
the  English-speaking  countries.  The  adequate 
reply  is  that,  whether  we  do  or  do  not  like  Ibsen 
is  quite  beside  the  mark.  After  seeing  Ibsen 
played  greatly — as  I  have  seen  him  played  in 
Christiania,  in  Berlin,  in  Chicago ; — after  descend- 
ing to  the  depths  of  human  misery  with  Haupt- 
mann,  or  running  the  gamut  of  tragic  experience 
with  Strindberg — it  is  impossible  to  experience 
the  old  insouciant  enjoyment  in  the  inanities  of 


90  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  fashionable  society-comedy,  the  lurid  melo- 
drama, or  the  machine-made  pieces  of  the  theater 
of  commerce.  After  the  deep  realities  of  The 
Wild  Duck,  we  turn  with  disgust  from  the  vapid 
pruriency  of  The  Spring  Chicken!  What  the- 
atric and  glucose  sentimentality  is  La  Dame  aux 
Camellias  after  the  high  seriousness  and  enfran- 
chising veracity  of  A  DolVs  House!  How  unen- 
durable a  Zaza  after  the  religious  yearning,  the 
mystic  sensitivity  of  Beyond  Human  Power! 
"  What  we  have  learned  from  Ibsen,"  says  Bern- 
ard Shaw,  "  is  that  our  fashionable  dramatic  ma- 
terial is  worn  out  as  far  as  cultivated  modern 
people  are  concerned.  What  really  interests  such 
people  on  the  stage  is  not  what  we  call  action — 
^neaning  two  well-known  and  rather  short-sighted 
actors  pretending  to  fight  a  duel  without  their 
glasses  or  a  handsome  leading  man  chasing  a 
beauteous  leading  lady  round  the  stage  with 
threats,  obviously  not  feasible,  of  immediate 
rapine — but  stories  of  lives,  discussion  of  conduct, 
unveiling  of  motives,  conflict  of  characters  in 
talk,  laying  bare  of  souls,  discovery  of  pitfalls — 
in  short,  illumination  of  life." 

The  second  great  contribution  to  the  modem 
drama  is  what  has  been  unfortunately  denomi- 
nated the  drama  of  ideas.  A  more  accurately  de- 
scriptive title  would  be  the  drama  of  intellectual 
content.     In   this   sense,  I   assert  that  the  mod- 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE   91 

ern  drama  began  with  Ibsen,  not  because  he  was 
the  first  great  contemporary  realist,  but  primarily 
because  he  inaugurated  an  epoch  in  art  by 
giving  an  absolutely  novel  exemplification  of 
the  function  of  the  drama.  For  centuries 
past,  the  critics  have  been  saying  what  they  con- 
tinue to  say  to-day :  that  the  dramatist  "  cannot 
express  more  than  the  average  of  the  prevailing 
opinions,  of  the  ideas  current  in  the  surrounding 
social  medium."  He  must  address  in  the  theater, 
we  are  baldly  told,  not  a  set  of  distinct  individuals, 
but  the  collective  spirit  of  the  species.  That  is 
to  say,  his  is  a  problem  in  vital  mathematics:  to 
find  the  greatest  common  denominator  of  the  com- 
posite pubhc.  Under  such  a  conception,  the  dram- 
atist's real  audience  is,  specifically,  the  esprit 
de  corps.  As  the  psychologist,  Gustave  Le  Bon, 
expresses  it,  again  mathematically,  the  drama  is  a 
"  function  of  the  crowd."  This  astounding,  yet 
persistent,  modern  idea  is  admirably  expressed  in 
Johnson's  familiar  lines: 

"The   drama's  laws  the   drama's  patrons  give, 
And  we  who  live  to  please,  must  please  to  live." 

Ibsen  was  the  first  man  in  the  history  of  the 
drama  who  deliberately  threw  over  this  misguided 
idea,  grown  a-weary  of  "  telling  a  lie  in  an  heroic 
couplet."  It  is  not  the  drama's  patrons,  but  the 
dramatist's  practice,  which  gives  the  laws  of  the 
drama.    So  passionate  was  his  love  for  the  ancient 


92  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

world  that  Swinburne  once  declared  that  he  wrote 
his  plays  for  antiquity.  Ibsen,  for  his  part,  dedi- 
cated his  work  to  posterity.  Wagner  magnil- 
oquently  pronounced  his  music-dramas  "  art 
work  of  the  future."  In  a  very  definite  sense, 
Ibsen  and  Wagner  were  the  first  great  Futurists 
in  art.  The  fundamental  differentia  of  the  new 
dramatist  is  his  demand  for  that  large  independ- 
ence of  rules  and  systems  which  Turgenev  posited 
as  the  indispensable  condition  for  great  art.  Just 
as  Zola,  the  founder  of  naturalism,  enlarged  the 
conception  of  function  of  the  novel,  sublimating 
it  into  a  powerful  and  far-reaching  instrumental- 
ity of  moral  purpose,  so  the  new  dramaturgic 
iconoclast  demands  the  stage  as  a  medium  for  the 
dissemination  of  the  most  advanced  views — upon 
standards  of  morality,  rules  of  conduct,  codes  of 
ethics,  and  philosophies  of  life.  His  primal  dis- 
tinction arises  from  the  discovery  of  the  ever- 
alarming  and  heretical  doctrine  that  life  is  greater 
than  art.  He  has  done  away  with  the  impotent 
conception  of  art  for  art's  sake.  He  has  ushered 
in  the  new  era  of  art  for  life's  sake. 

In  the  great  majority  of  cases,  as  a  study  of  the 
genesis  of  his  dramas  proves,  Ibsen  created  his 
dramas  from  an  initial  starting-point  of  some  gen- 
eral idea  or  ideas.  "  First  of  all,  Ibsen  jotted 
down  memoranda  by  which  he  clarified  the  intel- 
lectual problem  and  set  the  drama,  in  embryo,  as 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE      93 

under  a  miscroscope,  before  his  eyes.  These 
memoranda  are  usually  of  a  philosophical,  psy- 
chological, or  sociological  nature,  pungent  obser- 
vations upon  life,  criticisms  of  contemporary 
society,  epigrams,  thumb-nail  sketches  of  char- 
acter. These  noted  ideas  gradually  seemed  to 
group  themselves,  as  if  with  sub-conscious  design, 
around  some  generality  of  thought — a  nuclear 
accretion  around  some  central  point.  After  a 
time,  the  principal  characters  of  his  projected 
play,  minutely  observed  from  life  but  always 
transmuted  in  his  poetic  consciousness,  begin  to 
assume  definite  psychological  character  and  highly 
individual  attributes.  Then  Ibsen  seems  to  have 
brought  this  experiential  conception  to  bear  upon 
the  epigrammatic  idea  forms  preserved  in  hap- 
hazard memoranda.  This  intrusion  of  his  dra- 
matic conception  into  the  field  of  his  general  ideas 
produced  a  remarkable  effect — the  general  ideas  at 
once  began  to  group  themselves  into  symmetrical 
designs  of  definite  contours."  In  this  analysis 
of  mine  we  see  that  the  drama  developed  from 
quite  general  ideas ;  but  at  the  same  time  we  must 
realize  that  Ibsen  never  wove  his  general  ideas 
into  a  play  solely  for  their  own  sakes.  His  plays 
must  thus  be  thought  of,  not  as  thesis-plays  merely 
embodying  one  germ-idea,  but  as  artistic  recrea- 
tions of  human  experience  in  the  light  of  some 
general  idea  or  ideas. 


94  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

The  true  dramatic  realist  does  not  create  a 
drama  for  the  mere  object  of  expounding-  a  given 
thesis.  Nor  does  he  permit  his  general  Idea  to 
drain  his  characters  of  naturalness  and  verisimili- 
tude, leaving  the  mere  puppets  to  exlilblt  the 
operation  of  his  Intellectual  design.  But  he  ac- 
cepts a  problem,  a  generalization  on  life,  a  socio- 
logical datum,  as  the  basis,  the  ground-plan  for 
his  structure.  In  accordance  with  this  plan,  he 
erects  his  drama ;  each  part  must  structurally 
conform  to  the  general  scheme,  and  at  the  same 
time  be  consistent  within  Itself — an  unit  within  a 
larger  unit. 

It  cannot  be  urged  too  strongly  tliat  the  thesis- 
drama  Is  a  mistaken  form  of  the  drama  of  Ideas, 
of  intellectual  content.  In  the  true  sense.  The 
fundamental  defect  of  the  thesis-plays  of  Dumas 
fils,  who  may  properly  be  said  to  have  given  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  "  oeuvre  a  these,"  Is  patent 
after  very  slight  inspection.  In  a  thesis,  a  gen- 
erality about  life  and  conduct,  a  certain  moral  pre- 
cept Is  Implicit.  The  purpose  of  a  thesis-drama, 
therefore.  Is  to  demonstrate  some  general  Idea  by 
means  of  particular  incidents  or  series  of  Incidents 
shown  upon  the  stage.  The  thesis  dramatist  does 
not  wish  to  present  life,  to  draw  from  it  the  mean- 
ings implicit  therein.  He  desires  to  "  prove  some- 
thing " ;  and  in  consequence  he  dexterously  mar- 
shals his  figures  and  his  Incidents  for  that  purpose 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE      95 

and  that  purpose  only.  This  procedure  is  alien  to 
the  whole  spirit  of  imaginative  art,  and  places  the 
art  of  drama  on  a  plane  with  the  science  of 
mathematics.  It  is  that  species  of  "  dramatic 
algebra "  of  which  Lessing  so  contemptuously 
spoke:  once  all  the  factors  on  each  side  of  the 
dramatic  equation  have  been  canceled  out  with 
each  other,  the  demonstration  is  complete.  Zero 
is  equal  to  zero.  In  the  last  analysis,  art  is  an 
esthetic  process,  not  a  scientific  procedure.  Art 
can  never  demonstrate  anything.  It  is  impossible 
to  affirm  accurately  that  the  conclusions  deduced 
from  specific  instances  of  real  or  imagined  experi- 
ence do  actually  typify  a  general  idea,  or  enforce 
an  universal  truth.  "All  these  things  (imagined 
experiences),"  says  the  intuitivist,  Eduard  Rod, 
"are  mere  *jeux  d'esprit '  of  which  I  should  not 
think  of  denying  the  pleasantness,  and  I  admit 
that  we  are  indebted  to  them  for  works  which 
have  moved  us.  But,  if  they  have  inspired  a  few, 
I  fear  they  have  spoiled  a  good  many  and  cor- 
rupted fine  talents.  Nothing  warps  observation 
more  than  to  demand  of  it  a  priori  conclusions  for 
or  against  a  general  idea,  especially  when  the  idea 
itself  is  the  subject  of  controversy." 

Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Hauptmann  have  written  great 
dramas  of  ideas ;  but  the  characters  were  not 
designed  to  illustrate  and  enforce  these  ideas.  The 
fundamental   generalizations   upon   life,    conduct, 


96  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

and  morality  lay  implicit  in  the  characters  of  these 
people,  who  were  as  real  to  the  dramatists  as  the 
people  of  their  personal  acquaintance.  By  illum- 
inating the  interiors  of  their  very  souls,  showing 
them  in  crucial  situations,  depicting  soul-struggles 
transpiring  within  them,  the  great  dramatist  of 
the  contemporary  school  convicts  and  confounds 
his  audience  with  a  consciousness  of  the  reality, 
the  sternness,  the  infinite  possibilities  of  human 
life.  To  awaken  thought  through  emotion — such 
has  often  been  narrowly  defined  to  be  the 
true  and  inalienable  function  of  the  drama. 
The  contemporary  realist  fully  recognizes  the 
moral  quality  of  all  human  experience,  and 
avails  himself  of  it  to  the  utmost  degree.  It 
is  not  enough  to  make  mere  "  slices  of  life " ; 
for  life,  with  all  its  welter  and  confusion, 
is  not  instructive,  amusing,  or  edifying,  taken 
in  slices.  The  business  of  the  dramatist  is 
to  choose,  from  out  this  confused  mass,  certain 
characters  placed  in  certain  situations  which  im- 
plicitly carry  their  own  meaning.  Holding  the 
kodak  up  to  nature  results  in  a  "  comedie  rosse  " 
of  the  grosser  Theatre  Libre;  only  supremely  dis- 
criminative selection  will  result  in  the  great  drama. 
In  the  sense  employed  by  Goethe  in  speaking  of 
Moliere,  we  may  justly  say  that  the  dramatist  of 
the  new  school  chastises  us  by  painting  us  just  as 
we  are.    The  meaning,  profound,  disquieting,  lurk- 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE      97 

ing  implicit  in  his  dramas  of  contemporary  life, 
compels  us  to  think  deeply  over  the  problems  which 
he  has  raised — but  not  solved! — long  after  the 
immediate  emotional  disturbance  set  up  by  the 
play  itself  has  subsided.  Often  the  emotional  de- 
rangement effected  by  a  play  results  in  rasping 
our  nerves,  rather  than  in  "  purging  us  through 
pity  and  fear " ;  but  the  calm  reflection,  which 
follows  the  witnessing  of  a  drama  informed  by 
great  ideas  and  portrayed  by  vital  characters  in 
natural  situations,  has  a  distinct  moral  value. 
Moral  excitation  means  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  summons  toward  the  ordering  of  life  upon  a 
plane  of  purer  thought  and  wider  justice.  "  If 
thus  the  theater  often  causes  me  to  think  about 
certain  problems,"  says  the  Russian  critic,  Igna- 
toff,  "  a  habit  is  formed  which  is  extremely  useful 
in  life,  if  these  problems  closely  concern  humanity. 
.  .  .  The  theater  which  stimulates  thought  not 
only  leads  us  to  sympathize  with  the  weak  and  un- 
fortunate, but  also  to  consider  ways  and  means  of 
helping  them,  and  such  reflection  is  a  step  toward 
participation  in  human  affairs." 

The  modern  spirit  in  the  drama,  it  must  be 
clearly  indicated,  is  not  achieved  by  the  mere 
vapid  renovation  of  ancient  properties.  The  mod- 
ern dramatist  is  not  an  intellectual  sloven,  merely 
following  the  laggard  snail-pace  of  the  crowd.  He 
must  not  only  keep  in  vital  touch  with  his  age,  in 


98  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

order  that  his  meaning  and  purpose  may  be  com- 
prehensible to  his  audience ;  he  must  be  in  advance 
of  his  age.  As  Ibsen  puts  it,  he  must  be  a  franc- 
tireur  along  the  firing  line  of  progress.  It  has 
been  shown  that  the  application  of  biological 
principles  to  the  drama  as  an  evolutionary  form 
must  be  radically  modified  in  order  to  take  account 
of  the  individual  factor  of  the  dramatist.  For 
from  the  dramatist  himself  proceeds  that  art 
form  which  may  open  new  paths  for  the  future  ad- 
vance of  the  drama.  The  characters  which  he 
creates  must  conform  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age ;  it  is  not  enough  that  they  be  mere  abstract 
chronometers  of  the  time.  Within  them  must  lie 
the  fertile,  suggestive  seeds  of  progress.  They 
must  be  dynamic,  evolutional,  forward-moving, 
upward-looking,  facing  the  future.  The  greatest 
dramas  of  the  contemporary  period  may  justly 
be  regarded  as  heralds  of  a  new  time.  They  an- 
nounce the  dawn  of  a  new  culture. 

The  social  drama,  it  may  be  surmised,  is  the 
third  contribution  of  contemporary  dramatic  art. 
These  are  plays  which  start  into  life  through  the 
quickening  touch  of  the  contemporary ;  and  which 
endeavor  to  furnish  forth  an  interpretation  of 
society  through  the  illuminative  intermediary  of 
all  that  is  most  vitally  fecund,  most  prophetic,  in 
the  science,  sociology,  philosophy,  and  religion  of 
to-day.     They  are  concerned  with  all  the  crucial 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE   99 

instances  of  the  seething  and  tumultous  life  of  to- 
day— with  the  conflicts  of  social  classes  ;  the  strug- 
gle of  the  individual  with  existent  institutions, 
current  conventions,  social  determinism ;  the  con- 
flict of  human  wills  with  recalcitrant  circum- 
stances. If  the  drama  of  immediate  actuality  is 
human,  if  the  drama  of  intellectual  content  is  hu- 
mane, the  social  drama  is  essentially  humanitarian 
in  principle.  Nor  is  the  true  aim  of  such  a  drama 
to  be  concealed :  the  exposure  of  civic  abuse,  the 
redress  of  social  wrong,  and  the  regeneration  and 
reform  of  society.  These  it  well  may  achieve 
through  classic  means :  artistic  fidelity  to  fact, 
satiric  unmasking  of  human  folly,  and  veritistic 
embodiment  of  human  passion. 

The  modern  dramatist,  bred  on  the  exciting 
ferment  subsequent  to  the  French  Revolution,  and 
fired  with  the  passion  for  individualism,  which  was 
the  intellectual  keynote  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against  the  brutali- 
ties and  tyrannies  of  modern  civilization.  The 
conflict  of  the  modern  social  drama  is  the  conflict 
of  the  individual  with  his  environment,  his  heredity 
and  his  social  hereditament :  the  individual  against 
the  world.  A  man  like  Ibsen,  moved  to  philosophic 
doubt  by  Nietzsche,  to  scientific  anarchy  by  Dar- 
win and  Haeckel,  to  social  criticism  by  John 
Stuart  Mill  and  Henry  George,  clearly  came  to 
realize  that   for  the   future  the  artist's   attitude 


100  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

toward  life  must  be  not  only  revelative:  it  must 
be  redemptive  as  well.  The  modem  drama  must 
be,  not  only  a  mirror  to  reflect  surfaces  veraciously, 
but  also  a  Rontgen  ray  to  penetrate  the  surface 
and  reveal,  beneath  the  superficial  integument,  the 
fundamental  framework  and  structure  of  modern 
life. 

It  does  not  follow  that  the  school  of  Ibsen  sanc- 
tions propaganda  as  an  artistic  aim.  The  play 
which  preaches  is  seldom  art.  The  modern 
thinker,  be  he  novelist  or  dramatist,  can  no  longer 
ignore  the  social  inequalities  and  graver  social 
injustices  which  confront  him  at  every  turn.  The 
artist  may,  and  indeed  often  does,  create  a  work 
full  of  profound  social  implication — without  hav- 
ing a  direct  moral  or  social  "  purpose  "  in  view. 
A  specimen  is  that  fine  work  of  dramatic  art, 
theatrical  in  the  legitimate  sense,  Echcgaray's  El 
Gran  Galeoto.  It  is  not  the  artist's  immediate 
desire,  in  this  type  of  play,  to  effect  any 
special  reform  or  correct  any  specific  abuse.  He 
has  studied,  observed,  absorbed  a  certain  group 
or  phase  or  aspect  of  contemporary  social  condi- 
tions, and  these  he  has  depicted  with  all  the  dex- 
terity and  skill  which  he  can  command.  Seen 
through  the  strongly  colored  prism  of  his  own 
individual  temperament,  the  picture  will  likely 
appear  to  be  significant,  purposeful,  rich  in  social 
implication.     The  ideal  course  for  the  true  artist 


REALISM  AND  THE  rULPIT  STAGE    101 

to  pursue,  as  outlined  by  Galsworthy,  is :  "  To 
set  before  the  public  no  cut-and-dried  codes,  but 
the  phenomena  of  life  and  character,  selected  and 
combined,  but  not  distorted,  by  the  dramatist's 
outlook,  set  down  without  fear,  favor,  or 
prejudice,  leaving  the  public  to  draw  such  poor 
moral  as  nature  may  afford.  This  method  requires 
a  certain  detachment ;  it  requires  a  sympathy  with, 
a  love  of,  and  a  curiosity  as  to,  things  for  their 
own  sake ;  it  requires  a  far  view,  together  with 
patient  industry,  for  no  immediate  practical  re- 
sult." Galsworthy's  own  play,  The  Fugitive,  is  a 
very  high  modern  example  of  the  exhibition  of 
the  true  pity  and  terror  evoked  by  the  tragedy 
which  follows  a  breach  of  current  social  and  legal 
codes. 

Such  a  drama,  as  thus  outlined,  when  it  con- 
cerns itself  with  distinctively  social  questions  and 
problems,  may  be  denominated  the  drama  of  social 
implication.  The  most  successful  European  prac- 
titioner in  this  type  of  drama,  fortified  by  a 
clearly  defined  thesis,  is  Paul  Hervieu.  The  au- 
thor of  Le  Dedale  has  carried  the  thesis-drama  to 
a  very  high  pitch  of  excellence ;  his  subtlety  as 
a  psychologist  gives  depth  and  carrying  power 
to  dramas  which  might  otherwise  appear  merely 
symmetrical  or  schematic  in  construction.  Severe 
logician,  astute  social  thinker,  Hervieu  has  suc- 
ceeded in  charging  his  tragedies  with  a  certain 


102  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

dynamic  intellectual  quality.  The  practice  of 
contemporary  dramatists,  however,  has  thrust 
forward  into  view  a  second  type  of  social 
drama  more  explicit  in  its  purpose.  This  may 
be  entitled  the  drama  of  sociologic  injunction. 
The  social  dramas  of  Ibsen  and  of  Gals- 
worthy belong  to  the  former  class.  In  his 
To-morrow,  Mr.  Percy  Mackaye  has  given  a 
promising  anticipation,  in  this  type,  of  the 
greater  American  drama  of  the  future.  Ibsen 
declared  that  his  vocation  w^as  interrogation,  not 
affirmation.  Galsworthy  has  disclaimed  conscious 
purpose  for  the  redress  of  immediate  social  evils 
— notably  in  the  case  of  Justice.  The  social 
dramas  of  Shaw  and  of  Brieux — though  neither 
can  be  termed  a  realist  in  the  sense  in  which  I 
have  employed  the  term — belong  to  the  latter 
class.  An  interesting  comparison  is  afforded  by 
Ibsen  and  Shaw — the  one  as  an  exponent  of 
the  drama  of  social  implication,  and  the  other 
as  an  exponent  of  the  drama  of  sociologic  injunc- 
tion. 

The  three  types  of  serious  drama  find  exempli- 
fication in  the  work  of  the  Greeks,  the  Elizabeth- 
ans, and  that  of  the  contemporary  school.  In 
Greek  tragedy  we  discern  the  inevitable  conflict 
of  the  individual  with  Fate.  (Edipus  the  King, 
of  Sophocles,  succumbs  dumbly  to  the  decree  of 
an  immitigable,  foreordained  destiny.     The  hero 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE    103 

of  the  Greek  drama  does  not,  like  Kipling's  racy 
American, 

"  Match  with  destiny  for  beers  " ; 

he  matches  with  destiny  for  life,  and  loses — 
against  the  loaded  dice  of  the  gods.  The  second 
type  of  tragedy  came  with  Marlowe,  Shakespeare, 
and  the  Elizabethans.  Destiny  became  synony- 
mous with  human  character  itself.  In  every 
human  being  is  lodged  at  once  a  heaven  and  a  hell. 
Hamlet  struggles  vainly  against  forces  within 
himself  which  he  cannot  overmaster  and  control. 
When  we  come  to  the  time  of  Ibsen  and  Haupt- 
mann,  the  individual  has  begun  to  take  to  heart 
the  social  doctrine  that  he  is  his  brother's  keeper. 
Temperamental,  biological,  above  all  social  deter- 
minism in  one  form  or  another — is  the  modern 
equivalent  of  ancient  fatality.  In  The  Weavers, 
an  oppressed  class  struggles  pitifully,  dementedly 
against  a  social  condition  which  they  can  neither 
ameliorate  nor  remedy.  Dr.  Stockman,  in  An 
Enemy  of  the  People,  comes  into  sharp  conflict 
with  society  and  the  "  world."  The  ancient  tragic 
terror  has  become  softened  into  something  which 
seems  very  like  social  pity  and  altruistic  con- 
cern. Stockman's  is  not  a  tragedy  of  blood,  or  a 
tragedy  of  death ;  indeed  it  is  not  a  tragedy  at  all. 
It  is  a  serious  comedy,  a  tragi-comedy,  of  only 
temporary  and  individual  failure.  Some  day  that 
"damned  compact  liberal  majority" — the  social 


104  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

conspiracy  of  financial  self-interest — shall  yield 
before  the  puissant  miglit  of  social  right  and  moral 
justice. 

As  Ibsen,  together  with  his  followers,  may  be 
said  to  have  created  a  new  type  of  drama,  the 
pure  social  tragi-comedy,  so  Bernard  Shaw,  to- 
gether with  Brieux  and  others,  may  be  said  to 
have  invented  a  new  type  of  drama,  the  pure  social 
comedy.  Essentially  social  in  his  spirit  and  eco- 
nomic in  his  outlook,  Shaw  always  pitches  his 
comedies  in  a  militant  key.  He  frankly  confesses 
that  his  object  is  to  make  people  uncomfortable 
— and  who  would  venture  to  gainsay  him.''  In 
the  theater  of  Shaw,  "  we  are  not  flattered  spec- 
tators killing  an  idle  hour  with  an  ingenious  and 
amusing  entertainment :  we  are  '  guilty  creatures 
sitting  at  a  play.'  "  Shaw  has  not  hesitated  to 
set  before  the  public,  through  the  medium  of 
comedy,  those  views  and  codes  of  life  which  he 
himself  holds  with  utter  tenacity.  Shaw's  come- 
dies, because  of  the  vexatious  insistence  he  dis- 
plays in  exploiting  his  own  theories  of  social 
morality,  are  lacking  in  the  quality  of  stable 
equilibrium.  Though  deficient  in  the  note  of 
urbanity,  though  vehemently,  almost  hysterically 
directed  against  outworn  morals  and  decadent 
civilization,  they  succinctly  fulfil  Meredith's  test 
of  comedy:  they  awaken  our  thoughtful  laughter. 
Bergson  has  acutely  defined  laughter  as  a  social 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE    105 

gesture.  In  the  light  of  Shaw's  comedies,  one 
might  almost  define  laughter  as  a  sociologic  symp- 
tom. Shaw  seeks  to  shatter  that  something  rigid 
and  mechanical,  encrusted  upon  the  living  body 
of  modern  thought,  morals,  and  society.  His 
comedies,  in  the  last  analysis,  are  frantic  socio- 
logic ebullitions  upon  the  surface  of  modern  dra- 
matic art.  If  social  pity  is  the  underlying  motive 
of  the  later  Russian  novelists,  if  humanitarian 
concern  is  the  moving  force  of  the  dramas  of 
Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Hauptmann,  and  their  followers, 
sociologic  indignation  is  the  driving  force  in  the 
dramas  of  Shaw  and  Brieux. 

It  was  D'Alembert,  a  scientist,  who  said  that 
the  stage  was  "  morals  carried  into  action ;  rules 
reduced  to  examples."  This  pronouncement  may 
literally  be  interpreted  as  a  prophecy  of  the  con- 
temporary drama  of  social  morality.  The  fun- 
damental weakness  of  the  drama  of  sociologic  in- 
junction is  the  temptation  therein  afforded  the 
dramatist,  not  to  evoke  a  true  picture  of  human 
life,  but  to  construct  a  "  thesis-play  "  which  pur- 
ports to  enforce  a  general  principle  by  means 
of  a  particular  example.  Dramas  which  wrest 
the  facts  of  life  from  their  true  setting  in  the 
effort  to  enforce  a  particular  thesis  are  indefensi- 
ble from  the  standpoint  of  esthetics.  But  the 
best  examples  of  the  drama  of  sociologic  injunc- 
tion    escape     this     criticism     by     creating     the 


106  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

dramatic  conjuncture  out  of  the  individual  and 
social  obligations  of  the  chosen  theme.  The  writer 
of  the  modern  drama  of  sociologic  injunction 
often  deliberately  assumes  the  surplice  of  the 
priest  of  art,  and  employs  the  theater  as  tlie 
pulpit  from  which  he  hurls  his  anathemas  at  the 
churlish  throng.  This  is  not  an  esthetic  process, 
but  an  ethical  procedure.  The  ancient  impassi- 
bility^ has  given  place  to  a  passionate  sense  of 
social  obligation  to  speak  out,  to  pronounce  judg- 
ment ex  cathedra,  to  hand  down  the  tables  of  the 
new  social  commandments.  In  limning  a  word- 
picture  of  the  insouciant  audacity  of  the  charac- 
teristic type  of  contemporary  i^rt  and  life,  Mr. 
Gilbert  Chesterton  recently  said :  "  We  know  we 
are  brilliant  and  distinguished,  but  we  do  not  know 
that  we  are  right.  We  swagger  in  fantastic  artis- 
tic costumes ;  we  praise  ourselves ;  we  fling  epi- 
grams right  and  left ;  we  have  the  courage  to 
play  the  egotist,  and  the  courage  to  play  the  fool, 
but  we  have  not  the  courage  to  preach."  ]Mr. 
Chesterton,  we  suspect,  must  have  been  thinking 
of  himself  and  his  Protean  roles  when  he  wrote 
this  passage;  he  certainly  could  not  have  been 
thinking  of  a  novelist  like  Zola  or  Tolstoy,  of  a 
dramatist  like  Brieux  or  Shaw,  These  men  fully 
realize  and  eagerly  assume  the  sacerdotal  func- 
tions of  the  modern  artist.  Brieux  looks  upon 
the  theater  as  an  institution  for  social  instruction 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE    107 

and  moral  injunction  no  whit  inferior  to  the 
Church.  During  the  most  active  period  of  his 
career  as  a  dramatic  critic,  Shaw  won  attention 
not  merely  through  his  cleverness ;  he  caught  and 
held  his  audience  because  he  was  not  content 
with  writing  only  dramatic  criticism.  He  per- 
sisted in  writing  of  the  theater,  indeed  in  preach- 
ing about  the  theater,  as  a  "  factory  of  thought, 
a  prompter  of  conscience,  an  elucidator  of  social 
conduct,  an  armory  against  despair  and  dullness, 
and  a  temple  of  the  Ascent  of  Man."  It  is  be- 
coming well  recognized  to-day  that  the  theater 
has  actually  begun  to  challenge  the  Church  as  an 
instrumentality  for  inculcating  in  the  popular 
throng  just  and  adequate  codes  of  individual  and 
social  conduct.  In  this  day,  when  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  people  daily  witness  motographic 
representations  of  the  vast  dramas  of  the  life  of 
Christ,  of  Ben  Hur,  of  such  secular  sermons  as 
Sienkiewickz's  Quo  Vadis,  or  Bunyan's  Pilgriiri's 
Progress,  one  may  readily  realize  the  challenge  of 
this  new  feature  of  dramatic  representation,  not 
only  to  the  claims,  but  also  to  the  achievements  of 
the  Church,  as  a  "  prompter  of  conscience  "  and 
"  an  elucidator  of  social  conduct."  When  the  mod- 
ern social  dramatist  re-enforces  the  visual  appeal, 
and  the  trenchant  "  argument  of  the  flesh,"  with 
the  tremendously  potent  argument  of  dramatized 
morals  and  philosophy,  couched  in  the  most  telling 


108  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

phraseology  and  fortified  with  all  the  arts  of  the 
orator,  the  dialectician,  and  the  preacher,  it  is 
easy  to  foresee  the  immense  social  role  the  theater 
is  predestined  to  play  in  the  civilization  of  the 
future. 

The  Church — one  needs  but  to  affirm  it  to  win 
acceptance  of  the  affirmation  almost  without  the 
necessity  for  argument — is  steadily  losing  ground, 
both  in  directness  of  appeal  and  potency  of  effect. 
Everywhere  are  to  be  encountered  not  merely  signs 
of  a  "  growing  unrest,"  but  an  active  protest 
against  the  social  passivity  of  the  modern  Church. 
The  insincerity  and  cowardice  of  the  great  mass 
of  those  who  hold  the  church  pulpits  of  to-day  is 
in  nothing  so  clearly  demonstrated  as  in  their 
evasion  of  the  monumental  task  of  making  their 
religious  practice  square  with  their  intellectual 
theories.  So  long  as  creed  and  not  conduct  re- 
mains the  test  of  "  revealed  religion,"  so  long  will 
the  Church  be  threatened  by  the  challenge  of  a 
great  social  institution  so  powerful  as  the  theater, 
in  which  conduct  and  applied  morality  do  actually 
constitute  the  fundamental  test.  The  difference 
between  the  Church  and  the  theater  finds  its 
analogy  in  the  difference  between  critical  com- 
mentary and  narrative  literature.  The  former  is 
concerned  with  description ;  the  latter  is  concerned 
with  representation.  Nor  would  it  even  be  accu- 
rate to  complete  the  analogy,  since  the  Church  has 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE    109 

shirked  the  prime  requisite  of  all  criticism:  sin- 
cerity. The  average  church-goer  distrusts  the 
average  preacher;  for  he  knows  that  the  deeper 
problems  of  the  origin,  growth,  and  authenticity 
of  the  Scriptures  are  sedulously  avoided,  through 
a  craven  fear  that  admission  of  doubt  about  any 
portion  of  the  Scriptures  may  tend  to  shake  and 
undermine  the  foundations  of  Christian  belief.  In 
consequence,  the  preacher  impotently  falls  back 
upon  the  endlessly  monotonous  practice  of  Scrip- 
tural exegesis,  and  thereby  only  succeeds  in  wid- 
ening the  chasm  which  has  begun  to  yawn  between 
the  Church's  "  teaching "  and  the  great  central 
realities  of  practical  living. 

Fine  art,  it  has  long  been  recognized,  is  one  of 
the  most  potent  instrumentalities  known  for  the 
inculcation  of  moral  principles.  The  force  of  ex- 
ample, the  illustration  of  personal  conduct  in  act- 
ual or  imagined  life,  is  rightly  believed  to  be  un- 
paralleled in  its  influence  upon  the  life  of  man. 
But  life,  nature,  is  only  an  unconscious  teacher: 
it  may  indiff^erently  influence  to  good  or  lead  to 
evil.  The  attribution  of  conscious  intellectual  or 
moral  design  to  nature — the  fanciful  diversion  of 
a  Maeterlinck  or  the  philosophical  speculation  of 
a  Bergson — is  at  best  a  scientific  hypothesis ;  and 
at  worst  an  artistic  fancy.  Fine  art  is  selection ; 
the  dramatist  carefully  chooses  from  out  the 
welter  and  chaos  of  actual  or  imagined  incidents, 


110  THE  CHANGING  DRAI^IA 

those  particular  incidents  which  establish  a  chain 
of  intellectual,  social,  or  moral  causation.  The 
drama,  as  the  most  objective  of  all  the  arts — since 
it  is  at  once  the  indissoluble  union  and  coalescence 
of  all  the  arts — exerts  an  influence  in  moral 
propaganda  that  has  never  been  calculated,  for 
the  very  reason  that  it  is  incalculable.  The  mod- 
ern social  dramatist,  who  is  both  true  to  the 
principles  of  his  art  and  instinct  with  definite  moral 
purpose,  becomes  an  interpreter  of  life — the 
guardian  of  life's  holy  mysteries,  the  prophet  of 
life's  vaster  hopes  and  possibilities. 

The  theater  is  beginning  to  influence  a  wider 
circle  of  human  beings  than  the  Church.  The 
congregation,  approximately  speaking,  is  always 
the  same — from  Sunday  to  Sunday.  The  audi- 
ence in  the  theater  changes  from  night  to  night. 
The  Church  as  a  social  force  is  steadily  losing 
ground ;  the  theater  as  a  social  force  is  rapidly 
gaining  ground.  It  is  almost  needless  to  point 
out,  in  this  connection,  that  it  is  just  because  the 
Church  does  not  live  up  to  its  possibilities  and  its 
responsibilities  as  an  engine  of  social  service  that 
it  is  leaving  indiff'erence  and  apathy  in  its  wake. 
To  identify  with,  to  utilize  for,  its  own  transcend- 
ant  purposes,  the  potentialities  of  a  science  such 
as  eugenics,  of  an  art  such  as  the  drama,  is  one 
of  the  obvious  ways  in  which  the  Church  may 
hope   and   confidently   expect  to   regain   its  hold 


REALISM  AND  THE  PULPIT  STAGE    111 

over  the  minds,  the  hearts,   and  the   consciences 
of  men. 

Such  a  conspicuous  exemplar  of  the  contempo- 
rary drama  of  sociologic  injunction  as  Brieux 
frankly  says :  "  It  is  my  nature  to  preach.  .  .  . 
I  have  always  wanted  to  preach.  My  plays  all 
have  a  purpose.  That  is  why  I  write  them.  Had 
I  lived  in  the  seventeenth  century,  I  would  have 
been  a  preacher.  Then  the  Church  wielded  an 
enormous  influence.  But  now,  I  write  plays.  The 
theater  is  what  attracts  people ;  there  you  can 
get  them.  And  I  want  to  bring  the  problems  be- 
fore them.  I  want  them  to  think  about  some  of 
the  problems  of  life.  ...  I  have  tried  to  show 
how  wrong  it  is  to  shirk  responsibility.  All  evil 
comes  from  lack  of  feeling  of  responsibility — of 
the  individual  for  the  individual,  and  of  the  classes 
for  each  other."  Indeed,  I  think  the  greatest 
error  which  modern  criticism  has  made  proceeds 
from  the  vicious  assumption  that  the  social  dram- 
atist presumes  to  answer  the  questions  which  he 
raises.  On  the  contrary,  he  arouses  in  the  mind 
of  the  thoughtful  spectator  a  most  shocking  sense 
of  dubiety  as  to  the  wisdom  of  our  conventional 
attitude  of  social  indifference.  The  general  prob- 
lem, concretized  by  the  dramatist  in  a  highly 
specialized  case,  is  brought  sharply  to  the  at- 
tention and  to  the  conscience  of  the  audience. 
The  dramatist  brings  to  his  audience  a  sense  of 


112  THE  CHANGING  DRAAIA 

conviction :  we  feel  that  we  are  somehow  involved 
in  the  affair.  The  guilt  of  the  particeps  criminis 
weighs  upon  us.  It  is  not  for  the  dramatist,  but 
for  us,  to  find  the  solution  of  this  social  problem. 
Thus  may  be  rectified  some  of  the  major  evils, 
some  of  the  intolerable  injustices,  of  our  modern 
civilization.  Through  the  enlargement  and  deep- 
ening of  the  social  conscience  may  come  the  juster 
and  more  humane  social  order  of  the  future. 


THE  NEW  FORMS— NATURALISM  AND 
THE  FREE  THEATERS 


"  The  individual  can  attain  complete  independence  only 
when  he  liberates  his  soul  from  all  external  connections, 
from  every  objective  relation,  and,  as  a  free  subject,  simply 
lives  his  ovra  states  of  consciousness." — Rudolf  Eucken. 


On  a  bleak  evening  in  October  of  the  year  1887, 
some  cabs  deposited  a  group  of  critics  at  the  nar- 
row passage  of  the  Elysee  des  Beaux-Arts,  in 
Paris.  Stumbling  down  this  dark  passage,  they 
entered  the  door  of  No.  37.  They  were  there, 
unwittingly,  to  assist  at  the  birth  of  a  new  art: 
the  art  of  naturalism  in  the  theater.  With  rail- 
lery unconsciously  prophetic,  one  of  the  critics, 
Jules  Lemaitre,  in  his  next  week's  feuilleton,  after 
describing  his  strange  adventures,  passes  from 
jest  to  earnest  with  the  query:  "We  had  the  air 
of  good  Magi  in  mackintoshes  seeking  out  some 
lowly  but  glorious  manger.  Can  it  be  that  in 
this  manger  the  decrepit  and  doting  Drama  is 
destined  to  be  born  again?  " 

The  time  was  ripe  in  France,  indeed  in  all 
Europe,  for  the  revolt  embodied  in  the  Theatre 
113 


114  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Libre.  On  the  basis  of  the  scientific  investiga- 
tions of  Cuvier,  Taine  had  propounded  his 
memorable  theories  of  scientific  criticism.  "  Be- 
neath the  shell  was  an  animal  and  behind  the  docu- 
ment there  was  a  man  " — this  classic  phrase  may 
well  stand  for  the  foundation  stone  of  naturalistic 
criticism.  Art,  history,  criticism,  like  zoology, 
had  at  last  found  its  anatomy.  Race,  environ- 
ment, epoch — these  were  the  supreme  pivots  about 
which  revolved  the  massive  mechanism  of  modern 
scientific  criticism.  Man  came  to  be  regarded  as 
the  summation,  the  integration,  of  all  antecedent 
influence,  the  creature  of  environment,  the  instru- 
ment of  social  momentum.  Man  came  to  be  stud- 
ied as  an  organism ;  criticism  presumed  to  study 
the  "  laws  of  human  vegetation." 

In  the  early  days  of  his  literary  apprenticeship, 
the  young  Emile  Zola  gained  inspiration  and  in- 
struction from  his  occasional  chats  with  Taine. 
And  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  Zola  himself 
steps  forth  into  the  arena  as  the  champion  of 
naturalism  in  art,  the  art  of  both  fiction  and  the 
drama.  In  his  elaborate  and  monumental  series 
of  the  Rougon-Macquart  novels,  Zola  exhibits  the 
members  of  a  family  basically  affected  not  only 
by  social  influences  and  the  pressure  of  environ- 
ment, but  also  by  physiological  conditions  inherited 
from  their  ancestors.  It  was  his  purpose  to  do 
away  with  the  outworn  models  of  his  predecessors, 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  115 

with  their  persistent  idealization  of  the  working- 
classes.  "  My  book,"  he  said  in  speaking  of  the 
unspeakable  L^Assommoir,  "  is  the  first  book  which 
has  the  veritable  odor  of  the  people."  To  those  of 
delicate  sensibilities,  this  popular  effluvia  was,  not 
unnaturally,  highly  distasteful.  They  held  their 
noses ;  but — continued  to  read  Zola.  The  scien- 
tific basis  for  his  theories  lent  them  an  unques- 
tioned strength  and  stability.  The  artist,  under 
the  naturalistic  conception,  discards  the  interest 
of  the  anecdote  and  the  fable  in  favor  of  the  in- 
terest which  proceeds  from  a  faithful  and  minute 
description  of  actuality.  The  new  work  was 
viewed  as  "  simply  an  inquest  on  nature,  beings, 
and  things."  Animated  by  this  conception,  Zola 
propounded  his  famous  definition :  "  A  work  of 
art  is  a  phase  of  creation  seen  through  a  tempera- 
ment.'* .Realism  was  content  to  observe;  natural- 
Jsm  demanded  scientific  experimentation.  Under 
the  most  vigorous  canons  of  naturalism,  the  artist 
disclaimed  the  right  either  to  moralize  or  to  draw 
conclusions.  With  views  colored  assuredly  by 
temperamental  disposition,  the  naturalist  sought 
only  to  reproduce  life  as  it  actually  is  at  bottom, 
in  the  light  of  biological  and  social  science. 

The  threatened  invasion  of  the  theater  by  the 
exponents  of  naturalism  aroused  the  impassioned 
opposition  of  Dumas  fls.  "  My  literary  stand- 
point is  not  the  same  as  Zola's,"  he  asserted,  "  on 


116  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

some  matters  no  agreement  between  us  is  possible. 
But  he  is  a  strong  man ;  and  what  I  particularly 

like  about  him  is  his  d d  frankness."     Three 

forces  operated  to  create  the  drama  of  Augier  and 
Dumas  fils.     First  of  all,  they  were  the  inheritors 
of  the  technical  ideas  of  Eugene  Scribe.     What- 
ever may  be  urged  against   Scribe,  on  the  score 
of  poverty  of  ideas  and  weakness  in  psychology, 
certain  it  is   that  he  was  a  master  of  technical 
craftsmanship.    Although  his  plots  were  artificial 
and  trivial,  the  study  of  character  always  subor- 
dinate to  technical  ingenuity,  and  the  treatment  of 
life  which  his  plays  embodied  unworthy  of  being 
dignified  by  the  name  of  criticism,  he  was  a  master 
in  the  art  of  preparation  and  intrigue,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  a  remarkable  way,  through  an  artfully 
devised  chain  of  situations,  in  holding  the  atten- 
tion of  his  audience.     So  ingeniously  and  dexter- 
ously constructed  were  his  theatrical  pieces  that 
they  survived  the  harsh  test  of  transplantation  to 
other  soils.     La  Bataille  de  Dames  of  Scribe  and 
Legouve,  light  enough  to  be  popular  anywhere, 
has  already  achieved  a  sort  of  eminence  as  a  con- 
temporary  classic — in   that  genre.     And   so  the 
entire    civilized    world    was    flooded    with    "  well- 
made  plays,"  adaptations  from  Scribe  or  perpetu- 
ally renewed  illustrations  of  the  self-same  model. 
Dexterity    in    the    handling    of    plot    and    careful 
preparation  of  the  crucial  scenes  came  to  be  re- 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  117 

garded  everywhere  as  fundamental  features  of 
the  dramatic  form.  Not  Augier  and  Dumas  f.ls 
only,  but  Ibsen  and  Bjornson  both  served  their 
apprenticeship  to  Scribe,  and  acquired  a  mas- 
tery in  the  technic  of  preparation  and  manipula- 
tion. 

Augier  and  Dumas  fils,  under  the  influence  of 
the  earlier  realistic  conceptions,  sought  to  draw 
from  life  with  greater  accuracy  of  detail.  The 
incidents  were  more  natural,  the  conversation 
more  colloquial,  the  scenes  more  familiar  and  more 
intimate.  And  yet,  when  Zola  went  the  last  step 
and  propounded  his  theories  of  the  new  experi- 
mentation, Dumas  and  his  followers  arose  in  re- 
volt. In  his  reply  to  Zola,  in  the  preface  to  the 
Etrangere,  Dumas  protests  that  since  the  theater 
is  the  art  of  preparation  and  of  explanation,  it 
can  never  yield  to  the  demands  of  naturalism 
which  neither  prepares  nor  explains.  Moreover, 
dominated  by  a  passionate  moral  sense  and  en- 
dowed with  the  zeal  of  the  social  reformer,  Dumas 
condemned  naturalism  on  the  score  of  its  impas- 
sibility. The  naturalistic  drama,  he  averred,  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms.  It  is  neither  a  work  of 
art  nor  a  moral  demonstration — the  two  indis- 
pensable criteria  of  the  authentic  drama.  "  An  ' 
artist,"  says  Dumas  most  justly,  "  a  true  artist, 
has  a  higher  and  more  difficult  mission  than  the 
mere  reproduction  of  what  is :  he  has  to  discover 


118  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

and  reveal  to  us  that  which  we  do  not  see  in  things 
we  look  at  every  day — that  which  he  alone  has 
the  faculty  of  perceiving  in  what  is  apparently 
patent  to  all  of  us." 

For  all  the  protests  of  Dumas,  technically  mis- 
guided or  artistically  valid,  against  the  new 
theories,  naturalism  marched  on  to  an  irresistible 
invasion  of  the  theater.  The  birth  of  the  most 
fecund  dramatic  art  of  our  own  day  dates  from 
that  bleak  evening  in  1887  when  Faguet  and  his 
fellow-critics  stumbled  through  the  dark  purlieus 
of  Montmartre.  The  name  of  Andre  Antoine  is 
inextricably  linked  with  the  evolution  of  contem- 
porary dramatic  art.  From  him,  on  the  side  of 
managerial  novelty,  stems  the  fertile  conception 
of  the  theater  conducted  purely  in  the  interests 
of  artistic  experimentation.  By  forming  an  or- 
ganization of  patrons  who  supported  his  theater 
as  a  club  is  supported,  and  thereby  avoiding  the 
profit-seeking  evils  of  the  theater  of  commerce, 
Antoine  paved  the  way  for  the  experimental  or- 
ganizations of  to-day,  the  theatre  a  cote,  and  the 
later  development  of  the  short-run  and  repertory 
theaters.  In  the  matter  of  scenic  arrangement 
and  detail,  he  proceeded  upon  the  theory  of  Ibsen, 
who  had  defined  the  stage  as  a  room  of  which  one 
wall  has  been  removed.  In  the  art  of  acting,  he 
demonstrated,  in  the  face  of  limitless  ridicule,  his 
naturalistic  theories  by  the  aggressive  and  power- 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  119 

ful  verisimilitude  of  his  dramatic  incarnations. 
With  the  zeal  of  the  artistic  revolutionary,  he  dis- 
pensed absolutely  with  the  "  indispensable  prepa- 
ration "  of  Dumas ;  and  gave  at  his  theater  pieces 
which  came  to  be  denominated  as  "  slices  of  life  " 
("tranches  de  la  vie").  Around  him  collected 
a  group  of  men  of  distinguished  talent:  Pierre 
Wolff,  Leon  Hennique,  George  Ancey,  Camille 
Fabre,  and  Eugene  Brieux.  Under  his  patronage 
were  first  produced  Menage  d^ Artistes  and  Blanch- 
ette,  early  dramatic  works  of  the  remarkable  figure 
who  has  recently  been  denominated  the  most  im- 
portant dramatist  produced  by  France  since  the 
days  of  Moliere.  The  natural  consequence  of  the 
libertarianism  of  Antoine  was  the  production  at 
his  Theatre  Libre,  not  only  of  plays  of  French 
make,  but  also  of  remarkable  dramas  in  the  newer 
naturalistic  manner.  The  very  first  list  of  pro- 
ductions announced  by  Antoine  contained  Tol- 
stoy's Power  of  Darkness  (Puissance  des  Tene- 
hres);  and  here  in  succession  were  produced  such 
pieces  of  revolutionary  tendencies  as  Ibsen's 
Ghosts  (Les  Revenants),  Hauptmann's  Before 
Sunrise  {Vor  Sonnenaufgang),  Strindberg's  The 
Father  and  Miss  Julia.  Hospitable  to  all  the 
strange,  new,  and  disquieting  forces  in  the 
drama  of  the  time,  Antoine  threw  open  the  gates 
to  experimentation.  Only  a  few  years  after  the 
memorable  night  of  1887,  M.  Faguet  is    found 


120  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

boldly  proclaiming:  "  The  only  theater  in  Paris 
at  this  moment  is  the  Theatre  Libre." 

It  was  not  in  France,  incredible  as  it  may 
sound,  that  naturalism  as  a  di'amatic  form  canie 
l;o^ny  sort  ^just  fruition.  The  Theatre  Libre 
was  a  great  blow  struck  in  the  cause  of  freedom 
for  modem  experimentation  in  the  theater  and 
in  the  drama.  But  in  this  cradle  of  the  new  art, 
no  great  naturalistic  dramatist  de  pur  sang  was 
born./  The  master  of  Medan,  a  sort  of  presiding 
genius  of  the  Theatre  Libre,  began  as  the  great 
exemplar  of  naturalism  in  the  art  of  fiction.  Not 
only  did  he  never  achieve  mastery  of  the  nat- 
uralistic drama:  he  never  conquered  the  theater 
in  any  sense.  The  entire  course  of  his  subsequent 
development  shows  that  behind  the  mask  of  nat- 
uralism was  concealed  a  colossal  romanticist,  in- 
spired by  vast  dreams  and  chimerical  hopes  of 
social  and  humanitarian  reform.  'For  all  the 
stern  forthrightness  and  acute  psychology  of  his 
Les  Corbeaux  and  La  Parisienne,  that  remarkable 
talent,  Henri  Becque,  succeeded  neither  in  win- 
ning unconditional  success  in  the  French  theater 
nor  in  achieving  international  eminence  as  a  cos- 
mopolitan figurcj  Brieux,  vastly  the  most  prom- 
ising of  all  the  fledglings  of  Antoine,  soon  burst 
the  bonds  of  a  confining  naturalism ;  and  eventu- 
ally won  a  seat  in  the  Academy  for  his  genius  as  a 
dramatic  author  of  the  newer  social  and  human- 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  121 

itarian  type.  The  greatest  and  most  consistent 
champion  of  woman  the  contemporary  drama  has 
produced  is  the  author  of  Matcrnitc,  Les  Avaries, 
and  La  Femme  Seiilc.  [^It  was  not  as  a  natural- 
istic artist,  but  as  a  skilful  dramatic  crafts- 
man along  the  lines  of  a  normal  realism,  that 
Brieux  won  his  present  place  in  the  contemporary 
movement.  And  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  his 
widening  vogue  outside  of  France,  which  in  itself 
constitutes  a  definite  forwarding  of  the  principles 
of  dramatic  realism,  is  primarily  due  to  the  uni- 
versal emergence  of  social  problems  and  the  in- 
creasing dominance  of  questions  concerning  the 
status  of  woman  in  the  society  of  to-day. 

^he  real  triumph  of  naturalism  in  the  theater 
Js  the  contribution  of  Germany  through  the  per- 
son  of  Gerhart  Hauptmann.  In  literature,  he 
passed  under  the  influence  of  Ibsen,  of  Zola,  and 
of  Tolstoy.  That  little  book  of  sketches,  with 
its  startlingly  naturalistic  treatment,  the  Papa 
Hamlet  of  Arno  Holz  and  Johannes  Schlaf,  con- 
fessedly written  under  the  influence  of  Zola's 
theories  and  practice,  impressed  Hauptmann  as 
a  model  of  naturalistic  treatment.  The  powerful 
example  of  Ghosts,  the  only  drama  of  Ibsen's 
which  may  be  termed  naturalistic  in  its  treat- 
ment, exerted  a  tremendous  influence  likewise  upon 
the  young  Hauptmann.  It  was  a  most  fortunate 
conjunction — the  development  of  the  naturalistic 


122  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

talent  of  Hauptmann  strictly  contemporaneous 
with  the  rise  of  the  free  theaters  in  Germany. 
The  example  of  Antoine  in  Paris  awoke  the  am- 
bition of  young  Germany  to  emulate  his  example, 
to  free  dramatic  art  from  the  oppression  of  a 
despotic  bureaucracy  on  the  one  hand,  from  the 
shackles  of  a  rigid  and  adamantine  convention- 
ality on  the  other. 

The  opening  of  the  Free  Theater  (Freie 
Bilhne)  in  Berlin  in  the  autumn  of  1889  (Septem- 
ber 27)  marks  the  birth  of  the  new  dramatic 
movement  in  Germany.  The  gates  to  the  modern 
German  drama  were  thrown  open  by  the  produc- 
tion of  Ghosts,  as  Dr.  Otto  Brahra  expressed  it; 
and  during  the  next  few  years  this  same  play 
sounded  the  tocsin  of  the  new  time  in  England 
and  America.  It  was  the  opening  production  of 
the  Independent  Theater  of  London  in  1891 ;  and 
upon  its  first  production  in  New  York  in  1894«, 
the  performance  was  described  by  the  realistic 
novelist,  William  Dean  Howells,  as  "  the  very 
greatest  theatrical  event  he  had  ever  known." 
The  production  of  Hauptmann's  maiden  dramatic 
work,  Before  Sunrise,  in  1889,  was  a  significant 
event  in  the  history  of  the  modern  German  drama. 
During  the  same  season  were  produced  Bjornson's 
A  Gauntlet,  Tolstoy's  Power  of  DarJcness,  Die 
Familie  SelicJce  of  Holz  and  Schlaf,  a  sprawling 
chronicle  in  the  extravagantly  naturalistic  manner, 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  123 

and  Hauptmann's  second  play,  The  Coming  of 
Peace  {Das  Friedensfest).  The  storm  of  discus- 
sion aroused  by  Hauptmann's  two  plays,  and  the 
contradictory  opinions  thereby  evoked,  gave  pow- 
erful impetus  to  the  free  theater  movement.  The 
second  season,  with  its  five  performances,  was  note- 
worthy for  the  production  of  a  new  drama  by 
Hauptmann,  Lonely  Lives  {Einsame  Menschen, 
1881);  and  with  a  single  performance  of  Strind- 
berg's  Miss  Julia,  in  its  third  season,  the  Freie 
Biihne  ceased  to  exist.  For  it  had  fulfilled  its 
function,  accomplished  the  needed  pioneering 
work,  and  paved  the  way  for  Gerhart  Hauptmann 
and  his  successors. 

The  new  form  of  drama  created  by  Gerhart 
Hauptmann  we  shall  denominate  the  drama  of 
pure  naturalism.  In  such  dramas,  the  subjects 
are  invariably  chosen  from  contemporary  life ; 
and,  because  of  the  sharp  contrasts  and  new  ma- 
terials afforded,  from  those  phases  of  life  which 
had  hitherto  been  rigorously  excluded  from  the 
domain  of  the  drama— the  life  of  the  humble  and 
the  lowly.  The  subjects  treated  were  repulsive 
to  many  theater-goers,  accustomed  to  the  uni- 
versal idealization  of  life  in  the  conventional  the- 
ater. The  ugly,  the  abnormal,  the  asymmetric 
were  types  enthusiastically  studied  by  the  nat- 
uralists. Their  search  was  not  for  beauty,  for 
the  ideal,  or  for  the  moral ;  their  search  was  only 


124  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

for  the  truth  in  the  light  of  modern  social  rela- 
tivity. A  graphic  and  faithful  projection  of  a 
section  of  human  actuality — that,  in  fine,  was  the 
ideal  of  the  naturalist. 

As  a  new  form,  the  drama  of  pure  naturalism 
affords  in  its  origin  a  striking  example  of  that 
"  evolution  by  explosion  "  in  the  mutation  theory 
of  the  scientist,  De  Vries.  The  naturalistic 
drama  arose  in  Germany,  not  as  the  result  and 
culmination  of  a  series  of  insensible  gradations 
in  the  form  of  the  German  drama.  In  the  muta- 
tion theory  of  De  Vries,  a  species  sometimes 
arises  which  exhibits  no  transitional  stages  of 
preparation ;  the  addition  of  a  new  unit  to  the 
group  of  units  which  determine  the  character  of 
a  species  results  in  the  creation  of  a  new  form 
sharply  differentiated  as  an  individual  species 
from  the  one  out  of  which  it  has  been  produced. 
This  phenomenon  is  exemplified  in  the  origin  of 
the  literary  species  denominated  the  drama  of 
pure  naturalism.  Out  of  the  scientific  doctrine 
of  evolution,  and  not  out  of  the  drama  of  the 
past,  Hauptmann  selected  that  unit  idea  which, 
projected  into  the  group  of  units  which  deter- 
mines the  character  of  the  conventional  drama, 
eventuated  in  tlie  creation  of  the  newer  dramatic 
form,  the  drama  of  pure  naturalism.  This  new 
unit  was  none  other  than  the  cardinal  tenet  of  the 
doctrine  of  evolution:  social  determinism.     In  the 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  125 

drama  of  the  Greeks,  tragedy  was  the  result  of 
an  inscrutable  Fate,  the  immutable  will  of  the 
Gods.  In  the  drama  of  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare, 
tragedy  was  the  outcome  of  individual  character. 
The  individual  was  regarded  as  the  molder  of 
his  own  destiny;  he  was  thus  held  to  strict  moral 
account  for  his  actions.  This  tragedy,  which  has 
been  termed  the  drama  of  psychological  individ- 
ualization, was  essentially  moral  in  its  tone; 
destiny  became  identified  with  human  character 
and  the  human  will. 

An  eager  student  of  the  newer  scientific  theories 
in  their  relation  to  the  laws  of  human  behavior  and 
the  phenomena  of  human  society,  Hauptmann  soon 

became  a  convert  to  the  doctrine  of  social  deter- 

i.  ■■"  -"•" — ^ — 

minism.  Freedom  of  will  was  seen  to  be  a  delusion 
irT  the  face  of  the  overpowering  influences  of 
environment  and  inherited  characteristics.  The 
simple  conception  of  individual  responsibility  gave 
place  to  the  vaster  and  more  complicated  concep- 
tion of  man  as  a  creature  subject  to  the  fixed 
laws  of  social  and  biological  heredity.  In  this 
conception,  man  is  derivative,  not  creative.  The 
Jndividual  hero  .vanishes  forever  f  romthe  scene; 
and  the  characters  of  the  drama  are  the  resultants 


of  social  and  biological  influences  for  which  they 
are  not  individually  responsible^,.  Unity  of  action, 
the  indispensable  criterion  of  the  earlier  drama, 
gives  place  to  the  faithful  reproduction  of  scenes 


126  THE  CHANGING  DRAiVIA 

which  follow  each  other  in  strict  chronological, 
rather  than  psychological,  succession.  Tragic 
guilt  ceases  to  obtain :  we  are  devoured  less  with 
a  sense  of  individual  tragedy  than  with  a  senti- 
ment of  social  pity.  The  egoistic  appeal  of  the 
individual  character  tragedy  is  supplanted  by  the 
altruistic  appeal  of  a  social  catastrophe  arising 
from  the  maladjustments,  imperfections,  and  in- 
justices of  social  organization. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  naturalists  have 
produced  powerful  and  gripping  dramas,  more 
appalling  through  the  squalor  of  the  scenes  and 
happenings  than  elevating  through  the  beauty  of 
the  story.  Assuredly,  the  remorsclcssness  of  the 
treatment,  combined  with  the  repulsivcness  of  the 
characters  involved,  have  given  rise  to  the  not 
unnatural,  but  unwarranted,  critical  common- 
place that  the  naturalist  wishes  to  shock  and  hor- 
rify his  audience  with  his  drab  pictures  of  pov- 
erty, misery,  criminality,  and  degeneracy.  From 
the  philosophic  standpoint,  the  naturalist  is  in- 
tent upon  exhibiting,  in  the  most  effective  way,  the 
influences  of  environment  and  heredity  upon 
human  character  and  action.  In  consequence,  he 
chooses  his  subjects  and  scenes  from  those  classes 
of  society  which  exhibit  the  operation  of  these 
forces  in  the  most  striking  way.  Indeed,  the  citi- 
zens of  the  fourth  estate,  the  petty  artisans,  the 
humbler  peasantry,  the  submerged  tenth  in  the 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  127 

cosmopolitan  centers,  crooks,  tramps,  thugs, 
criminals — in  these  lower  forms  of  humanity,  char- 
acter is  least  volitional  and  creative.  In  such 
social  strata  are  most  glaringly  patent  the  tragic 
consequences  of  hereditary  ills  and  proclivities, 
the  direful  influences  of  surroundings  calculated 
to  retard  and  arrest  all  intellectual  and  spiritual 
development.  When  the  naturalist  chooses  his 
subjects  from  the  ordinary  ranks  of  human  life, 
the  self-imposed  restriction  of  moral  detachment, 
of  absolute  impassibility,  forces  him  to  select  for 
his  subjects,  in  illustration  of  the  working  of 
scientific  forces,  individuals  descending  in  the 
character  scale — abnormal,  aberrant,  distorted 
types,  diseased  stocks,  moral  perverts,  degen- 
erates, human  symptoms  of  a  decadent  civiliza- 
tion. Of  the  first  class,  one  might  mention  that 
succession  of  kinematographic  pictures  of  a  social 
hell's  kitchen,  Gorky's  The  Lower  Depths;  that 
terribly  repulsive  picture  of  sexual  degeneracy, 
Zola's  Nana;  that  grim  denotement  of  the  moral 
degradation  of  the  Russian  peasantry,  Tolstoy's 
The  Powers  of  Darkness;  the  dramatic  panorama 
of  a  peasant's  strike,  presided  over  by  the  grim 
figures  of  Hunger  and  Want,  Hauptmann's  Die 
Weber;  that  fevered  dream  of  universal  anarchy, 
Andreyev's  Savva.  Of  the  second  class,  conspicu- 
ous examples  are  such  presentments  of  the  tragic 
consequences  upon  the  younger  generation  of  evil 


128  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

living  of  the  older,  as  Ibsen's  Gliosis,  Hauptmann's 
Vor  Sonncnaufgang,  Strindbcrg's  Miss  Julia;  such 
illustrations  of  the  pathetic  results  of  human  dis- 
parities and  imperfections  in  environmental  influ- 
ence as  Hauptmann's  Einsame  Menschen,  Shaw's 
Mrs.  Warreri's  Profession,  Brieux'^  Blavchette; 
such  exemplifications  of  abnormalities  in  char- 
acter and  temperament,  due  to  heredity  and  en- 
vironmental influences,  as  Ibsen's  Hedda  Gabler, 
Strindbcrg's  The  Creditors,  Brieux's  Matcrnite, 
D'Annunzio's  La  Citta  Morte. 

The  day  of  the  drama  of  pure  naturalism,  I 
dare  say,  is  past.  The  temper  of  the  age,  with 
its  altruistic  sentiments  and  social  sense,  alone 
would  suffice  to  reject  the  drama  which  posits  im- 
passibility as  one  of  its  cardinal  principles.  In- 
deed, the  further  development  of  naturalism  was 
effectively  checked  when  the  very  founders  of 
naturalism  deserted  the  temple  they  had  reared., 
Hauplmann,  witlT'a  versatility  unmatched  by  any 
contemporary  dramatist,  soon  revealed  himself  in 
many  guises  wholly  unfamiliar,  and  indeed  an- 
tipodal, to  naturalism.  While  Ibsen's  dramas  are 
founded  upon  modern  theories  of  science  and  psy- 
chology, his  characters  are  volitional,  and  they 
concern  themselves  fundamentally  with  problems 
of  psychology  and  morality.  Indeed,  almost  all 
of  his  later  dramas,  symbolic  in  treatment  and  en- 
veloped  in    certain    mystical   ideas,    are    far    re- 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  129 

moved  from  naturalism.  Strindberg  Jeft  the^eld  . 
of  pure  naturalism^to  soar  into  the  blue  „ol  inys=-, 
ticism,  of  aUegory,  of  romance. 

,  First,  as  Indicated,  the  changed  temper  of 
the  age  and  the  defection  of  the  naturalists 
themselves  cJiecked  the  advance  of  the  principles 
naturalism.  Second,  the  drama  in  the 
deals     with     conflict,     struggle,     and     the 


clashes  arising  from  the  development  of  char- 
"acter  and  growth  oT  soul.  The  naturalistic 
drama,  constituted  of  characters  purely  static, 
shown  in  scenes  chronologically  successive,  failed 
to  furnish  the  indispensable  appeal  of  human  in- 
terest. The  force  of  the  naturalistic  influence,  it 
cannot  be  too  strongly  asserted,  however,  has 
been  the  greatest  influence  in  the  development  and 
creation  of  the  contemporary  drama  of  the  cos- 
mopolitan type.  The  eff'ects  of  naturalism,  under 
the  less  forbidding  term  of  realism,  its  legitimate 
off'spring,  are  the  most  conspicuous  effects  which 
the  drama  of  to-day,  wherever  it  may  be  found, 
has  to  exhibit.  In  all  the  exterior  details  of  stage- 
setting,  in  a  certain  poverty  of  mise-en-scene,  in 
the  lack  of  extraneous  and  extrinsic  embellish- 
ment, the  contemporary  drama  exhibits  overwhelm- 
ing naturalistic  influence.  The  selection  of  sub- 
jects from  modern  life,  the  employment  of  the 
vernacular  in  conversation  and  the  presentment, 
with  the  minimum  of  convention,  of  a  highly  nat- 


130  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ural  picture  of  real  life — these  requirements,  now 
accepted  by  the  dramatic  craftsman  as  indispensa- 
ble requirements  of  his  art,  are  the  immediate 
consequences  of  the  principle  and  practice  of  nat- 
uralism. Even  more  profound  has  been  the  influ- 
ence of  naturalism  upon  the  treatment  of  human 
character ;  for  the  contemporary  dramatist  must 
be  better  and  more  accurately  informed,  than  was 
the  dramatist  ever  before  in  history,  upon  the 
modern  scientific  theories  of  hypnotism,  auto-sug- 
gestion, psychotheraphy,  psychopathy,  heredity, 
environment,  all  the  newer  principles  of  biology 
and  psychology. 

Naturalism  furnished  the  model  of  the  drama 
plireTy  static.  For  there  is  virtually  no  room  for 
the  dynamic  display  of  volitional  activity  in  a 
drama  without  psychological  development  and 
la,cking  in  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the  ancient 
dramatic  formula.  This  naturalistic  type  of 
drama  lent  itself  not  to  long  productions  in  five 
acts  in  the  larger  theaters,  but  to  plays  of  a  few 
scenes,  sometimes  of  only  a  single  act — pictures, 
tableaux,  atmospheric  in  tone  with  a  minimum  of 
action — shown  in  a  theater  of  very  limited  size. 
This  is  the  "  intimate  theater  "  of  to-day.  The 
Theatre  Libre  first  gave  Zola's  Therese  Raquin, 
— a  dramatized  version  of  a  novel,  it  is  true,  but 
in  its  form  distinctly  creative ;  and  soon  after- 
ward produced  Strindberg's  Miss  Julia.     At  the 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  131 

Theatre  de  VCEuvre,  of  Lugne  Poe,  were  pro- 
duced Strindberg's  The  Father  and  Creditors  as 
conspicuous  specimens  in  the  new  manner  adapted 
to  the  stage  of  the  intimate  theater ;  and  the  de- 
velopment proceeded  rapidly  in  Berlin,  first  fos- 
tered by  the  Freie  Biihne  and  developed  gradu- 
ally by  the  genius  of  Reinhardt.  The  earlier 
ideas,  which  prevailed  about  the  drama  and  the 
theater  as  its  temple,  were  blown  away  by  the 
fierce  blasts  of  the  new  idea.  Under  the  older ' 
conception,  a  drama  must  be  five  acts  long,  with 
no  changes  within  the  acts ;  each  act  must  be 
scenic  in  character ;  the  end  of  the  act  must  be  j 
a  "  curtain  " — i.e.  a  situation  designed  to  evoke 
the  applause  of  the  audience.  The  hero  and 
heroine  were  roles  especially  designed  for  "  star^." 
The  conventions  of  dramaturgy  in  a  large  theater 
were  destructive  of  vocal  illusion:  the  straining 
of  the  voice,  in  order  to  be  heard  to  the  farthest 
confines  of  the  theater,  the  oratorical  and  formal 
cast  imparted  to  speeches  given  in  a  voice  raised 
to  a  much  higher  pitch  than  that  employed  in 
real  life,  the  absurdity  of  being  forced  to  whisper 
low  enough  to  be  heard  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  away,  etc.  The  intimate  theater  must  be 
small  enough  to  enable  the  player  to  speak  with 
entire  naturalness  but  without  straining  the  voice. 
This  close  contact  with  the  audience,  achieving 
the  intimacy  of  naturalness  and  reality,  resulted 


132  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

in  the  abolition  of  star-parts,  "  curtains,"  so- 
liloquys,  mere  effects.  When  Reinhardt  opened 
his  Kammerspielhaus,  the  very  titk  of  the  little 
theater  expressed  its  function :  to  carry  over  into 
drama  the  idea  of  "  chamber  music."  The  drama 
adapted  to  the  intimate  theater  can  be  neither 
sprawling,  "  theatrical,"  nor  long-winded.  To 
employ  the  words  of  Strindbcrg,  it  must  be  brief, 
significant,  creative.  "  No  definite  form  should 
control  the  dramatist,  since  the  motive  alone  de- 
termines the  form.  Freedom  in  treatment  is  all — 
conditioned  only  by  unity  and  the  sense  of  style 
in  conception." 

»^The  stajjc  drama,  of  the  new  tyjpe,  is  thus  seen, 
to  be  the  product  of  naturalism  and  a  functional 
*"3ramatTc     adaption     to     the     intimate     theater. 
Two    new   species   of   this    form  have    come   mto 
being    within    the    last    few    decades,    the   one    in 
comedy,  the  other  in  tragedy.    .Each  isa_drama 
of  quiescent  action,  of  depressed  volition.     Each 
attains  its  purpose :  Uieonc  through  purely  intel- 
lectual,   the    other    through    purely    atmospheric 
1  means.     1?he  one  may  roughly  be  described  as  a 
I  dramatized    debate,    the    other    as    a    dramatized 
I  short-story.     The  first  form  I  shall  denominate 
I  the  drama  of  discussion;    the   second   form,  the 

drama  of  suggestion. 

The    drama    of    discussion,    under    a    critical 

analysis,  would  appear  to  have  its  origin,  if  not 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  133 

its  precise  exemplification,  in  the  dramatic  the- 
ories of  Ibsen.  In  his  drama  of  recessive  action, 
which  finds  ^J^classic  model  in  the  (Edipus  Rex.^. 
.aJLS.Q^hpcles,  Ibsen  foreshortened  and  compressed 
the  action  into  a  climax  or  catastrophe.  Hebbel 
before  him  had_unearthed  the  germ  of  the  dram.a.. 
of  explicatjon  in. _th.e ^discovery  that  action  and  _ 
exposition  must  be  identified.  Since  only  the  con- 
cluding phases,  the  climax  or  catastrophe  of  a 
cumulative  series  of  events,  were  to  be  presented, 
the  dramatic  craftsman  was  compelled  to  dram- 
atize the  exposition.  That  is  to  say,  the  char- 
acters were  obliged  to  reveal  in  discussion,  in 
exchange  of  confidences,  in  revealing  hints  and  ac- 
cusatory implications,  the  incidents  and  events 
which  preceded  and  gave  rise  to  the  situations 
exhibited  within  the  confines  of  the  drama  itself. 
A  Doll's  House,  for  example,  is  an  excellent  illus- 
tration of  the  French  model  of  a  well-made  play 
— down  to  a  certain  point.  When  Nora  suddenly 
says  to  Torvald :  "  In  all  these  eight  years — 
longer  than  that — from  the  very  beginning  of  our 
acquaintance,  we  have  never  exchanged  a  word 
on  any  serious  subject,"  and  sits  down  to  discuss 
in  extenso  the  situation  with  him,  we  realize  that 
Ibsen  has  broken  sharply  with  the  old  form  and 
found  the  germ  of  the  new.  It  was  this  revolu- 
tionary change — this  elaborate,  revelatory  discus- 
sion with  its  dramatic  climax — which  so  startled 


134  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Francisque  Sarcey  that  he  threw  up  his  hands, 
declaring  that  he  understood  nothing  of  the  au- 
thor's purpose  and  intent.  An  Enemy  of  the 
People  is  a  more  concise  example  of  the  drama 
of  explication ;  Dr.  Stockmann's  most  conclusive 
action  is  a  speech,  which  consumes  almost  an  entire 
act.  More  conspicuous  still  is  Little  Eyolf,  which, 
save  for  the  death  of  little  Eyolf,  the  event  giving 
the  impulse  to  the  play,  is  almost  entirely  devoted 
to  discussion — a  mordantly  incisive  revelation, 
through  exchange  of  ideas,  of  two  people's  views 
of  life  and  of  the  gradual  re-alignment  and 
common  agreement  as  to  the  future.  This  play 
may  be  described  as  the  dramatization  of  certain 
intellectual  and  emotional  states.  The  social 
dramas  of  Ibsen  are  all  dramas  of  awakening. 
And  this  awakening  results  less  from  overt  actions 
of  the  characters  than  from  the  train  of  ideas  set 
up  in  the  minds  of  the  characters  by  some  par- 
ticular complication  or  conjunction. 

The  contemporary  drama  has  been  essentially 
explicative  in  character,  concerning  itself  less  with 
the  actions  themselves  than  with  the  psychological 
motives  which  give  rise  to  such  actions  or  the  de- 
velopment of  character  in  consequence  of  such 
actions.  Action  has  lost  its  predominant  vitality 
as  an  end  in  itself:  it  serves  rather  as  a  point  of 
approach  or  a  point  of  departure.  Such  plays 
as  Tlie  Cherry  Orchard  of  Tchekhov,  The  Cred- 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  135 

itors  of  Strindberg,  A  Gauntlet  of  Bjornson, 
Moody's  The  Great  Divide,  Schnitzler's  Das  Ver- 
mdchtniss,  Bergstrom's  Lynggard  and  Company 
may  be  instanced  as  adequate  forms  of  the  drama 
of  explication. 

The  extension,  or  rather  the  amplification,  of 
the  germ  idea  of  Ibsen  has  been  the  technical  con- 
tribution   of    Shaw    and    Brieux.     According    to 
Shaw's    narrow    but    precise    conception    of    the 
dramas  of  Ibsen,  they  exhibit  the  conflict  of  the 
older  with  the  newer  ideals.    It  is  significant  that 
even  in  his  most  explicative  dramas,  Ibsen  never 
permits  his  characters  to  discuss  ideas  of  life  save 
as  a  means  of  exhibiting  an  indispensable  phase 
of  character  or  forwarding  the  dramatic  move- 
ment of  the  piece.     On  the  other  hand,  Shaw  has 
conceived  and  executed  a  number  of  dramas  not 
only  singularly  devoid  of  action,  but  also  singu- 
larl}^  replete  with  discussion.     In  witnessing  Don 
Juan  in  Hell,  from  Man  and  Superman,  given  as 
an  unit  at  the  Royal  Court  Theater  in  London,  I 
felt  that  the  type  had  been  pushed  to  the  verge 
of  its  possibilities.    One  could  not  fail  to  recognize 
that  the  beautiful  costumes  designed  by  Charles 
Ricketts,  the  "  conducting  "  of  Shaw,  the  amazing 
glibness  of  Robert  Loraine  and  Norman  McKin- 
nel  were  all-powerful,  almost  indispensable,  aux- 
iliaries.    With  Shaw,  the  discussion  obscures  the 
action   and    often   becomes    merely    an    end,    not 


136  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

a  means.  With  Ibsen,  the  discussion,  the  conver- 
sational explication,  is  itself  drama;  with  Shaw, 
the  discussions  are  often  merely  displays  of  in- 
tellectual virtuosity,  decorative  dialectics.  Shaw 
prides  himself  as  much  on  being  a  moralist  and 
a  debater  as  on  being  a  dramatist.  And  in  the 
light  of  such  a  view,  he  has  the  hardihood  to 
proclaim  that  "  an  interesting  play  cannot  in 
the  nature  of  things  mean  anything  but  a  play 
in  which  problems  of  conduct  and  character  of 
personal  importance  to  the  audience  are  raised 
and  suggestively  discussed."  Shaw  has  written 
notable  plays,  authentic  dramas  according  to 
Aristotelian  standards,  in  which  discussion  dis- 
plays a  large  part — Mrs.  Warren's  Profession, 
Candida,  Man  and  Superman,  Fanny's  First  Play. 
He  has  written  others  which  do  not  accord  with 
Aristotelian  standards — having  no  beginning,  mid- 
dle, or  end,  in  the  technical  sense ;  revealing  no 
authentic  conflict  of  wills ;  almost  totally  lacking 
in  action.  Getting  Married  and  Misalliance  are 
perhaps  the  best  examples.  These  the  critics 
gleefully  pronounce  to  be  "  not  plays  " — and  con- 
demn as  the  witty  vagaries  of  a  skilled  dialec- 
tician. In  the  Induction  to  Fanny's  First  Play, 
Shaw  elucidates  this  critical  attitude  through  the 
mouth  of  "  Trotter,"  in  whom  he  has  lampooned 
Mr.  Walkley,  of  the  Times: 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  137 

"  I  am  aware  that  one  author,  who  is,  I  blush  to  say, 
a  personal  friend  of  mine,  resorts  freely  to  the  dastardly 
subterfuge  of  calling  them  conversations,  discussions,  and 
so  forth,  with  the  express  object  of  evading  criticism. 
But  I'm  not  to  be  disarmed  by  such  tricks.  I  say  they  are 
not  plays.  Dialogues,  if  you  will.  Exhibitions  of  char- 
acter, perhaps:  especially  the  character  of  the  author.  Fic- 
tions, possibly,  though  a  little  decent  reticenee  as  to  intro- 
ducing actual  persons,  and  thus  violating  the  sanctity  of 
private  life,  might  not  be  amiss.  But  plays,  no.  I  say 
NO." 

Criticism,  as  already  indicated,  must  radically 
reverse  its  definitions  of  drama  and  the  dramatic 
to  make  room  for  the  new  drama  of  discussion. 
Remarkable  examples  of  this  form  constitute  per- 
haps the  most  notable  work  which  has  been  done 
by  the  younger  British  dramatists.  Galworthy's 
most  successful  drama,  Strife,  is  a  drama  of  dis- 
cussion. Barker's  The  Voysey  Inheritance  and 
The  Madras  House,  with  quite  prosaic  settings 
and  a  minimum  of  action,  are  essentially  disqui- 
sitions, discussions  in  the  form  of  a  stage  play. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  plays  recently  written 
is  Schnitzler's  Professor  Bernardhi,  a  play  con- 
sisting of  a  discussion,  by  a  large  number  of  char- 
acters, of  a  single  episode,  innocent  enough  in 
itself  yet  almost  endless  in  its  religious  and  social 
ramifications.  The  most  effective  work  of  the 
strikingly  talented  St.  John  Hankin,  though  he 
aped  the  conversational  brilliancy  of  Wilde,  fol- 
lows the  lines  of  the  drama  of  discussion.     Wilde 


138  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

himself,  a  past  master  in  the  art  of  writing  witty 
dialogue,  did  not  produce  the  true  drama  of  dis- 
cussion— being  singularly  inept  as  a  social  phi- 
losopher and  incapable,  as  dramaturgist,  of  doing 
more  than  carrying  on  the  tradition  of  Congreve 
and  Sheridan. 

yThe  second  variant  of  the  typc^of  static  drama 
is  the  form  created  by  Maetcrlmck  in  his  earlier 
no-plot  dramas.  This  form,  in  an  essay  published 
a  good  many  years  ago,  I  have  chosen  to  entitle 
^he  drama  of  suqgesiion.  There  are  two  char- 
acteristic features  of  Maeterlinck's  work :  the 
dominance^  of  fatality  apd  the  stylicizcd  manner. 
Maeterlinck  harks  back  to  the  aiultnt  idea  ^f 
fatality,  so  familiar  to  the  Greeks ;  and  conceives 
of  a  God,  after  the  fashion  of  Jupiter  perhaps, 
essentially  cruel  and  malign  in  disposition.  With 
a  sense  for  character  but  slightly  developed,  he 
has  drawn  a  group  of  characters  which  are  de- 
ficient in  individuality,  volition,  or  even  morality. 
They  are  pitiable,  primitive  creatures,  children 
of  the  youth  of  the  world — stumbling  blindly  into 
the  snares  and  gins  of  fate,  fleeing  dementedly 
from  the  wrath  to  come.  The  primitive  naivete, 
the  juvenility  of  the  characters,  is  accentuated 
by  the  employment  of  a  certain  peculiar  style, 
which  creates  and  emanates  the  desired  atmos- 
phere. The  dialogue  is  broken,  halting,  stammer- 
ing, repetitive,  recitative — suggestive  at  once  of 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  139 

the  volitional  fatuity,  the  mental  vacuity  of  the 
characters.  The  real  secret  of  the  distinction  of 
such  dialogue  is  its  suggestiveness.  We  are  con- 
scious that  conversation  is  but  a  superficial  mani- 
festation, which  veils  depths  of  consciousness — 
language  sufficing  to  conceal  both  thought  and 
feeling.  Furthermore,  Maeterlinck  accomplishes 
the  difficult  feat — a  feat  which  Thomas  Hardy 
achieves  so  masterfully  in  his  Wessex  fiction — -of 
inducing  the  consciousness  that  there  is  a  secret 
connection,  intercommunication — must  I  say  rap- 
_port — ^Between  Nature  and  humanity.  As  in  the 
ancient  Hebrew  days,  the  later  Roman  time,  so 
with  Maeterlinck  men  look  to  Heaven  for  a  sign— 
and  when  it  manifests  itself,  they  heed  it  with 
superstitious  reverence. 

These  earlier  dramas  of  Maeterlinck,  which 
were  overloaded  with  symbolic  paraphernalia  and 
often  too  heavily  freighted  with  ni}' sticism,  exactly 
express  a  certain  definite  aspect  of  contemporary 
art.  This  form  of  drama  again  illustrates  in 
literary  evolution  the  operation  of  the  mutation 
theories  of  De  Vries.  A  new  species  of  drama 
comes  into  being,  deriving  many  elements  from 
the  past  but  not  exhibiting  a  gradual  evolution 
from  preceding  forms  through  a  series  of  suc- 
cessive gradations.  Into  the  group  of  units  con- 
stituting the  species  known  as  the  Greek  drama 
of  fatality,  Maeterlinck  projected  a  new  unit  idea 


140  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

from  a  new  art — tlie  art  of  the  short-story.  This 
unit  idea  was  the  contribution  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe — the  idea  of  suggestion,  the  indirect  creation 
of  illusion.  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  the 
Arabesque — in  the  very  title  lies  a  clue  to  Poe's 
artistic  formula.  In  poem  as  well  as  in  short- 
story,  in  The  Raven  as  well  as  in  The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher,  Poe  successfully  evokes  a  shiver 
— through  his  exotic,  stylicized  form  and  his  sug- 
gestion of  the  immanence  of  mysterious,  malign 
forces  within  and  without  us,  lurking  there  to 
work  upon  us  their  devious  will.  Spielhagen  has 
maintained  that  Poe  was  dominated  by  a  single 
theory  of  criticism ;  and  that  he  attributed  to  the 
drama,  the  epic,  and  the  short-story  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  lyric  poetry.  Yet  Poe  was  but 
anticipating  the  theor}'  of  the  modern  one-act 
play — the  form  which  Strindbcrg  believed  to  be 
the  dramatic  form  of  the  future — when  he  said,  in 
speaking  of  the  short-story  or  prose  tale:  "if 
wise,  he  (the  artist)  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts 
to  accommodate  his  incidents ;  but  having  con- 
ceived with  deliberate  care  a  certain  unique  or 
single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents 
such  incidents — he  then  combines  such  events — as 
may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this  preconceived 
effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the 
outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has  failed  in 
his   first   step.      In   the   whole   composition   there 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  141 

should  be  no  word  written,  of  which  the  tendency, 
direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established 
design." 

As  I  pointed  out  some  years  ago,  Maeterlinck's 
plays  of  suggestion  follow  precisely  the  lines  of 
the  short-story,  being  characterized  by  original 
and  ingenious  artistic  effects,  more  than  often 
fantastic  and  exotic,  and  above  all  convergent, 
intensive,  cumulative,  as  a  means  of  inducing  the 
sense  of  unity,  of  totality.  "  The  artistic  kinship 
of  Maeterlinck  with  Poe  and  Maupassant,"  to 
quote  my  own  words,  "  becomes  all  the  more 
patent  when  we  recognize  Maeterlinck's  no-plot 
plays  not  only  as  occult  studies  in  hallucination, 
but  as  dramatic  versions  of  the  perfected  art  form 
of  the  masters  of  the  short-story."  Dr.  C. 
Alphonso  Smith  has  pointed  out  that  the  "  prac- 
tical scientific  strain  "  in  Poe's  work  warrants  us 
in  describing  him  as  "  the  greatest  constructive 
force  in  American  literature."  I  have  often  felt 
that  America's  first  great  conquest  in  the  domain 
of  the  drama  was  destined  to  be,  because  of  her 
contributions  to  world  literature  in  the  technic 
and  form  of  the  short-story,  a  mastery  of  the 
technic  and  form  of  the  one-act  play. 

The  drama  of  suggestion,  it  need  scarcely  be 
pointed  out,  is  not  the  work  of  Maeterlinck  alone. 
The  peculiar  constitution  of  his  philosophy  and 
temperament  tends  to  fix  association  of  the  form 


142  THE  CHANGING  DRAINIA 

with  his  name.  The  "  dialogue  of  secondary  inten- 
tion,"  as  defined  by  Maeterlinck,  is  found  in 
Shakespeare  and  Ibsen.  Hamlet  and  The  Master- 
Builder  are  assuredly  dramas  of  suggestion ;  so 
also  are  Hauptmann's  Hannele,  Strindberg's 
There  are  Crimes  and  Crimes  and  Easter,  Bjorn- 
son's  Beyond  Human  Power,  Wilde's  Salome, 
Kennedy's  The  Servant  in  the  House.  As  far  as 
quiescence  of  action  in  the  drama  is  concerned, 
that  is  a  part  of  the  heritage  of  modern  enlight- 
enment. "  For,  in  truth,"  says  Maeterlinck,  "  the 
further  we  penetrate  into  the  consciousness  of 
man,  the  less  struggle  do  we  discover.  ...  A  con- 
sciousness that  is  truly  enlightened  will  possess 
passions  and  desires  infinitely  less  exacting,  in- 
finitely more  peaceful  and  patient,  more  salutary, 
abstract  and  general,  than  are  those  that  reside 
in  the  ordinary  consciousness." 

In  an  age  of  universal  experimentation,  the 
golden  age  of  science  and  invention,  we  may  look 
confidently  forward  in  expectation  of  the  early 
emergence  of  many  new  forms  of  the  drama.  We 
are  beginning  to  be  confronted  with  a  profusion 
of  novel  experiments — the  gigantesque  photo- 
drama,  Cahiria,  of  D'Annunzio ;  the  neo-classicist 
poster  pantomime  of  Reinhardt,  Sumurun;  vast 
pageants,  such  as  those  I  have  witnessed  at  Lon- 
don and  Oxford,  or  the  more  recent  Masque  of 
St.    Louis    in   this    country ;    productions    of   the 


NATURALISM  AND  FREE  THEATERS  143 

classics  and  the  Elizabethans  in  the  new  impres- 
sionist manner;  the  renascence  of  the  open-air 
theater;  toy  theaters;  plays  for  marionettes, 
etc.  Dramatic  activity,  stimulated  here  and  there, 
often  produces  novelties  in  the  treatment  of  local 
situation ;  and  from  time  to  time  "  movements  '* 
are  heralded  with  many  flourishes.  The  strange- 
ness of  Heijermans'  The  Good  Hope,  an  impres- 
sionistic study  of  the  sea,  almost  deceives  us  into 
thinking  that  he  has  achieved  a  new  form ;  cer- 
tainly there  is  novelty  in  the  tendency,  so  notice- 
able in  Maeterlinck,  for  example,  for  making 
Nature  the  protagonist  in  drama.  So  faithful  to 
artistic  truth  is  the  work  of  John  Millington 
Synge  that  we  feel  as  if,  upon  the  soil  of  Ire- 
land, the  day  of  dramatic  art  has  dawned  with 
a  fresh,  rich  splendor.  His  drama,  novel  in  its 
elemental  reversion  to  the  type  of  dramatic  art 
at  the  beginning  of  history,  bears  out,  in  great 
measure,  the  promise  to  afford  that  nourishment 
upon  which  live  the  imaginations  of  men.  We 
sense  profound  prophecy  in  his  memorable  words : 
"  On  the  stage  one  must  have  reality,  and  one 
must  have  joy;  and  that  is  why  the  intellectual 
modern  drama  has  failed,  and  people  have  grown 
sick  of  the  false  joy  of  the  musical  comedy,  that 
has  been  given  them  in  place  of  the  rich  joy  found 
only  in  what  is  superb  and  wild  in  reality." 

Dramatic  forms,  imparting  a  semblance  of  nov- 


144  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

elty  by  reason  of  purely  allegorical  or  epical  quali- 
ties, testify  to  the  modern  tendency  toward 
experimentation.  Strindberg's  colossal  trilogy, 
To  Damascus,  is  an  amorphous  dramatic  auto- 
biography ;  yet  it  sounds  the  universal  note.  In 
his  remarkable  dramatic  allegory,  The  Life  of 
Man,  Andreyev  stands  at  the  opposite  pole  from 
the  Goethe  of  Faust,  the  Ibsen  of  Peer  Gynt;  he 
has  here  achieved  the  quintessence  of  artistic  ab- 
straction. The  Everymoman  of  Browne,  with  its 
cheap  and  tawdry  effects,  nevertheless  so  caught 
a  certain  tone  of  universality,  the  sense  which 
makes  the  whole  world  kin,  as  to  touch  the  heart 
of  millions.  We  await  from  Maeterlinck  the  su- 
preme allegorical  drama  of  our  time.  Symbolic 
romance,  extensive,  vast,  bids  fair  to  express  best 
the  artistic  sense  of  the  coming  century. 


VI 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS.— THE 
ANCIENT  BONDAGE  AND  THE  NEW 
FREEDOM 

"  We  wish  to  know  the  reason  why  we  have  made  up 
our  mind,  and  we  find  that  we  have  decided  without  any 
reason,  and  perhaps  even  against  every  reason.  But,  in 
certain  cases,  that  is  the  best  of  reasons.  For  the  action 
which  has  been  performed  does  not  then  express  some 
superficial  idea,  almost  external  to  ourselves,  distinct  and 
easy  to  account  for:  it  agrees  with  the  whole  of  our 
most  intimate  feelings,  thoughts  and  aspirations,  with 
that  particular  conception  of  life  which  is  the  equiva- 
lent of  all  our  past  experience,  in  a  word,  with  our  per- 
sonal idea  of  happiness  and  of  honor.  Hence  it  has  been 
a  mistake  to  look  for  examples  in  the  ordinary  and  even 
indifferent  circumstances  of  life  in  order  to  prove  that 
man  is  capable  of  choosing  without  a  motive.  It  might 
easily  be  shown  that  these  insignificant  actions  are  bound 
up  with  some  determining  reason.  It  is  at  the  great  and 
solemn  crisis,  decisive  of  our  reputation  with  others,  and 
yet  more  with  ourselves,  that  we  choose  in  defiance  of  what 
is  conventionally  called  a  motive,  and  this  absence  of  any 
tangible  reason  is  the  more  striking  the  deeper  our  free- 
dom goes." — Henri  Beegson. 

The  drama  is  a  living  art  form.  One  may 
question,  therefore,  whether  it  will  ever  be  possible 
to  devise  for  it  categories  wholly  valid,  universally 
comprehensive,  since  the  drama,  as  a  life  form,  is 
subject  to  the  law  of  evolution.  It  is  a  sig- 
nificant illustration  of  the  evolution  which  is  crea- 
145 


146  THE  CHANGING  DRA^IA 

tive  as  well  as  progressive,  continually  enlarging 
its  scope,  broadening  its  domain,  through  the 
pressure  of  the  human  factor,  in  this  instance  the 
vital  urge.  Writing  to  Heinrich  Laube  in  1880, 
Ibsen  said :  "  Do  you  really  attach  much  value 
to  categories?  I,  for  my  part,  believe  that  the 
dramatic  categories  are  elastic,  and  that  they 
must  accommodate  themselves  to  the  literary  facts 
— not  vice  versa.''  And  again,  four  years  later, 
in  a  letter  to  Theodore  Caspari,  Ibsen  remarked: 
"  I  gave  up  universal  standards  long  ago,  because 
I  ceased  believing  in  the  justice  of  applying 
them."  In  these  observations,  Ibsen  struck  a 
blow  for  freedom  in  the  domain  of  dramatic  art. 
Dramatic  criticism,  forever  seeking  to  formulate 
comprehensive  categories  within  which  to  embrace 
the  entire  field  of  dramatic  representation,  exer- 
cises a  repressive  influence  upon  the  creative 
genius.  One  of  the  most  striking  facts  in  the 
modern  dramatic  movement  is  the  constructive 
demonstration  of  many  contemporary  dramatic 
craftsmen  that  a  play  may  be  eminently  successful 
in  stage  representation,  judged  by  both  artistic 
and  commercial  standards,  and  yet  be  intrinsically 
"  undramatic  "  when  judged  by  the  confining  defi- 
nitions and  traditional  tenets  of  dramatic  criti- 
cism. A  continually  recurring  phenomenon  now- 
adays is  the  play  which  attains  popular  success 
on  the  stage,  though  condemned  by  the  dramatic 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS     147 

critic  as  not  du  theatre,  not  a  drama.  The  time  is 
ripe  for  the  exhibition  of  creative  criticism  as  ap- 
pHed  to  the  new  forms  and  the  display  of  a  more 
catholic  spirit  in  judging  the  original,  experi- 
mental art  work  of  to-day. 

One   can   illustrate   sharply  the  difference  be- 
tween   ancient    and    modern    practice    by    a    com- 
parison of  the  ideas  of  Aristotle  with  the  ideas  of 
Hauptmann   in    regard   to   the   drama.      Such   a 
comparison  will  serve  to  clarify  and  elucidate,  in 
some  measure,  the  most  significant  terms  employed 
in    dramatic    criticism:    character,    action,     and 
drama.     In  one  of  the  most  famous  passages  in 
all  dramatic  criticism,  Aristotle  says :  "  Tragedy 
is  an  imitation,  not  of  men,  but  of  an  action  and 
of  life.    .    .    .    Dramatic  action,  therefore,  is  not 
with  a  view  to  the  representation  of  character; 
character  comes   in  as   subsidiary   to  the  action. 
Hence  the  incidents  and  the  plot  are  the  end  of 
a  tragedy;  and  the  end  is  the  chief  thing  of  all. 
Again,  without  action  there  cannot  be  a  tragedy; 
there  may  be  without  character.   .    .    .   The  plot, 
then,  is  the  first  principle,  and,  as  it  were,  the 
soul   of  a  tragedy ;   character   holds    the   second 
place."      Viewed    from    any    standpoint,   whether 
from  that  of  Aristotle  alone  or  from  that  of  the 
dramatic  critic  of  to-day,  the  dictum  is  so  gross 
and  exaggerated  a  distortion  of  the  truth  as  to  be 
a  virtual  falsity.     The  object  of  the  drama,  in 


148  THE  CHANGING  DRA^NIA 

Aristotle's  view,  is  to  exhibit  character  in  action ; 
and  the  two  constituent  elements  of  the  drama  are, 
therefore,  character  and  action.  Is  it  possible, 
then,  for  the  dramatist  to  utilize  either  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  other?  In  other  words,  Aristotle 
is  seeking  the  indispensable  requirement,  the  abso- 
lute differentia  or  distinguishing  characteristic, 
of  the  literary  species  known  as  the  drama.  Of 
the  two,  he  chooses  "  plot  "  as  the  "  first  princi- 
ple "  of  the  drama ;  and  he  clearly  implies  the 
definition  that  action  means  "  the  incidents  and 
the  plot."  Since  Aristotle's  day,  action  has  come 
to  mean  something  vastly  deeper  and  more  com- 
prehensive than  merely  "  the  incidents  and  the 
plot."  It  appears  to  be  a  perfectly  true,  but  per- 
fectly trivial,  dictum  that  a  fable  is  indispensable 
to  the  drama.  It  is  a  deliberate  perversion  of  the 
facts  to  maintain  that  this  fable  is  synonymous 
with  action.  By  the  same  token,  a  fable  is  equally 
indispensable  for  the  novel  and  the  short-story. 
Yet,  in  the  light  of  modern  dramaturgic  practice, 
even  the  fable  is  not  an  indispensable  ingredient 
of  the  drama.     The  drama  may  exist  without  a 

1,1,  II  J    ^-r,^        ... .r-^ — 

jglot;  and  the  contemporary  naturalistjig-s  again 
and  again  demonstrated  this  dictum  by  taking 
,  gown  tfie  fourth  wall  of  a  room  and  exhibiting  a 
static  picture  of  hnma,n  ]|fe,  l^uch  a  play  is  not 
a  play  in  the  sense  understood  by  Aristotle ;  it 
is  not  essentially  narrative,  but   essentially  pic- 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      149 

torial  and  atmospheric,  in  its  nature.  The  drama 
need  not  embody  a  story  of  human  experience;  it 
need  only  be  a  picture  of  human  existence,  real  or 
imagined.  In  the  choice  of  the  dramatist,  sub- 
limated by  his  art,  this  picture  may  be  so  typical, 
so  representative,  as  in  itself  to  constitute  a  criti- 
cism of  life,  a  judgment  of  society,  or  an  ideal 
striving  of  the  human  soul. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  that  Aristotle  is  guilty  _, 

of   real   confusion   in   thought  in   identifying   the  0^^  -'^ 
story  with  "  the  incidents  and  the  plot."  „if_Aris-/tt  /U.^^"^ 
tptle    really   meant,   as   he   says,   that    "  withouturtc*  t^  •• 
j,ction  mere  cannot '  be  a  "  tragedy ,"  again  is  JieTA^  "XK^**-^ 
refuted  by  the  practice  of  contemporary  dramatic*t4A<»**^  ^'^ 
.art—  Here  we  are  confronted  with  the  fundamental'yT**'''^^ 
principle,  indeed  the  very  definition,  of  the  drama  \t^  f^^  .    oT 
and  of  necessity  we  must  strive  anew  to  arrive  afex^M^^^^ 
some  adequate  comprehension  of  the  term  action. 
Through  the  intermediary  of  Spitta   in  his  Die 
Ratten,  Hauptmann  denies  the  importance  of  ac- 
tion in  the  drama  and  asserts  it  to  be  *'  a  worthless 
accident,  a  sop  for  the  groundlings  !  "     Certainly, 
action  in  the  sense  of  physical  deeds  is  no  longer 
the  obligatory  attribute  of  the  drama.     Speaking 
in  his  own  person,  Hauptmann  has  said:  "Action 
upon   the    stage   will,   I    think,    give   way   to    the 
analysis  of  character  and  to  the  exhaustive  con- 
sideration  of  the  motives  which  prompt  men  to 
action.     Passion  does  not  move  at  such  headlong 


150  THE  CHANGING  DRAINIA 

speed  as  in  Shakespeare's  day,  so  that  we  present 
not  the  actions  themselves,  but  the  psycliological 
states  wliich  cause  them."  Up  to  the  time  of  our 
modern  era,  the  inevitable  conclusion,  tlie  artistic 
■finale  of  tragedy,  was  death.  To-day,  the  violent 
is  the  exceptional  moment  of  life;  and  a  deeper 
tragedy  than  dying  may  be  the  tragedy  of  living. 
Great  dramas  surely  Avill  be  written,  notable 
dramas  have  already  been  written,  in  which 
passive  acceptance  and  not  active  resistance  is  the 
distinguishing  characteristic.  Action,  says  Gil- 
bert in  Wilde's  Intentions,  is  limited  and  relative. 
"  But  we  who  are  born  at  the  close  of  tliis  wonder- 
ful age  are  at  once  too  cultivated  and  too  critical, 
too  intellectually  subtle  and  too  curious  of  ex- 
quisite pleasures,  to  accept  any  speculations  about 
life  in  exchange  for  life  itself."  Wilde  here  but 
expresses  the  conventional  idea  that  the  life  of 
action  is  infinitely  preferable  to  the  life  of  con- 
templation. Certain  modern  critics  have  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  say  that  Aristotle,  in  positing  action 
as  the  indispensable  criterion  of  the  drama,  was 
only  anticipating  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  in  defin- 
ing the  drama  as  the  struggle  of  the  human  will 
against  obstacles. 

The  essential  feature  of  the  dramatic  species, 
says  Brunetiere,  is  the  exhibition  of  the  opposi- 
tion between  the  world  without  and  the  world 
within,  tlie  objective  and  the  subjective.     Struggle 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      151 

is  its  essential  clement.  With  Aristotle,  the  word 
action  has  an  implicit  material  connotation;  but 
Brunetiere  employs  the  word  conflict,  which  is  as 
applicable  to  the  realms  of  the  mental,  the  moral, 
the  ethical,  and  the  spiritual,  as  to  the  material 
and  the  physical.  The  one  and  indispensable 
criterion  for  the  drama,  according  to  Brunetiere, 
is  that  it  shall  portray  a  clash  of  contending  de- 
si  r  e  s  ,astark_asse  r  tion_of_th^ 
sfrpnnnns  nppQsitinn.  for  the  attainment  of  its 
end^  "  There  can  be  no  tragedy  without  a  st r ug- 
gie,"  he  says ;  "  and  there  can  be  no  genuine  emo- 
tion for  the  spectators_unlpss  something  other 
and  greater  than  life  is  at  stake."  It  is  not  life 
alone,  then,  the  material  issue,  but  a  spiritual 
issue — something  other  and  greater  than  life — 
which  is  the  stake  of  tragedy:  character,  honor, 
loyalty,  integrity,  fidelity,  freedom,  justice.  To 
quote  Brunetiere  once  more,  to  make  his  position 
abundantly  clear,  "Drama  is  a  representation_of\ 
the  will  of  man  in  conflict  with  the  mysteriousV 
powers  or  natural  forces  which  limit  or  belittle 
us ;  it  is  one  of  us  thrown  living  upon  the  stage, 
there  to  struggle  against  fatality,  against_social 
law,  against  one  of  his  feTTow-mortalSj_  against 
himself,  if  need  be,  against  the  ambitions,  the  in 


terests,  the  prejudices,  the  folly,  the  malevolence 

of  those  who  surround  him." 

-I  ■  I  III 

Life  thrusts  before  us  at  every  turn  a  series  of 


152  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

decisions  that  must  be  made,  of  alternatives  that 
must  be  chosen.  The  problems  "^  ^"^"^  nnd-d«&irf> 
eternally  clamor  for  solution — the  problems  oj 
predestination  and  freedom,  of  will  and  inrhnn,- 
tion,  of  passion  and  self-restraint.  The  two 
fundamentals  which  Brunetiere  posits  as  indis- 
pensable criteria  for  the  dramatic  species  are  will 


and  struggle.  A  very  brief  consideration  will  suf- 
nce  to  demonstrate  that  these  so-called  differenti- 
ating characteristics  of  the  dramatic  species  are 
striking  characteristics  of  other  forms  of  literary 
art.  The  short-story  is  an  art  form  which  has 
been  developed  to  a  high  state  of  excellence  during 
the  contemporary  period.  Intensive,  cumulative 
force  is  a  distinguishing  characteristic ;  unity  of 
impression  is  a  prime  requisite.  All  the  lines 
must  converge  to  a  predestined  end  or  culmina- 
tion. Some  of  the  most  finished  specimens  of  the 
form  exhibit  the  human  will  in  struggle,  or  a 
clash  of  contending  desires.  Even  the  lower 
forms,  such  as  the  detective  story,  concretize  a 
struggle  of  the  intensest  sort.  The  will  of  a 
Dupin,  expressed  in  the  most  cultivated  forms  of 
detective  imagination,  of  the  faculties  of  analysis 
and  deduction,  struggles  to  overcome  the  obstacles 
presented  by  a  series  of  mysterious,  apparently 
inexplicable,  facts.  Sherlock  Holmes  is  less  a 
personality  than  a  volitional  intelligence,  direct- 
ing the  searchlight  of  imagination  and  deduction 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      153 

in  the  effort  to  overcome  seemingly  insurmounta- 
ble obstacles.  To  acknowledge  that  such  stories 
are  essentially  dramatic  is  begging  the  question. 
By  the  logic  of  Brunetiere's  hypothesis,  we  are 
driven  to  the  manifestly  false  conclusion  that  they 
are  dramas.  We  may  assume  that  such  stories, 
in  competent  hands,  are  subjects  for  dramatiza- 
tion. But  such  an  hypothesis  is  clearly  irrelevant 
to  the  question  before  us. 

The  suggestion  has  recently  been  advanced  that 
crisis,  rather  than  conflict,  is  the  essence  of  drama. 
A  crisis  is  a  turning  point  in  the  progress  of  a 
series  of  events,  a  culmination.  Assuredly  this 
is  a  concomitant  attribute  of  the  dramas  falling 
under  Brunetiere's  definition.  Such  dramas,  in- 
deed, exhibit  or  constitute  a  series  of  events,  of 
physical  or  psychological  import,  marked  by  the 
display  of  wills  in  action.  Crisis,  to  be  sure,  is 
one  phase,  the  culminant  phase,  of  the  struggle  of 
wills ;  indeed,  such  a  struggle  will  generally  ex- 
hibit a  chain  or  succession  of  crises.  It  must 
also  be  conceded  that  this  new  criterion,  though 
shallower  in  content,  is  more  comprehensive  than 
the  criterion  of  Brunetiere.  Consider  the  static 
dramas  of  Maeterlinck  in  his  earlier  period,  which 
are  indubitably  short-stories  cast  in  the  dramatic 
form.  A  play  such  as  L'Intruse,  exhibiting  no 
struggle  of  wills,  is  clearly  not  a  "  drama,"  ac- 
cording to  Brunetiere.     Yet  under  the  new  cri- 


154  THE  CHANGING  DRAINIA 

terion,  it  is  distinctively  a  drama:  an  intensive 
representation  of  a  crisis.  In  order  to  create  the 
desired  illusion,  the  author  makes  every  word, 
every  slightest  stir  of  nature,  cumulative  in  its 
effect.  It  is  a  little  drama  of  cumulative  dread. 
This  new  theory  has,  however,  no  thoroughly 
solid  foundation.  For  its  propounder  has  left  un- 
defined the  essential  element,  crisis ;  or  rather,  he 
committed  the  amateurish  blunder  of  defining  it 
in  terms  of  itself.  The  quintessential  character- 
istic of  drama,  says  Mr.  Archer,  is  crisis ;  but  he 
further  insists  that,  since  all  crises  are  not  dra- 
matic, we  must  admit  within  our  category  only 
the  dramatic  crises !  In  other  words,  the  essence 
of  drama  is  the  crucial  crisis ;  or  to  put  it  the 
other  way  round,  crisis  is  the  essence  of  the  dra- 
matic drama.     Which  is  absurd. 

It  may  be  further  urged  against  the  criteria 
of  both  conflict  and  crisis  that  many  great  novels 
exhibit  the  stark  assertion  of  the  human  will 
struggling  against  obstacles  through  a  series  of 
progressive,  interlinking  crises.  Furthermore, 
one  need  only  turn  to  the  fertile  and  original 
dramas  of  our  time  in  order  to  discover  satisfac- 
tory examples  of  the  successful  stage  play  which 
fall  outside  the  categories  of  both  conflict  and 
crisis ;  and  a  backward  glance  will  disclose  not 
a  few  plays  of  high  rank,  the  work  of  men  of 
different    times    and    differing    nationalities,    ex- 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      155 

eluded  from  these  categories.  Of  plays  of  the 
moderns,  falling  without  the  category  of  conflict, 
may  be  cited,  for  example,  Schnitzler's  Lebendige 
Stunden,  Maeterlinck's  Les  Aveugles,  Les  Sept 
Princesses,  Ulnterieure,  and  Ulntruse,  Gorky's 
Nachtasyl,  Hauptmann's  Hannele,  Strindberg's 
Easter,  Elizabeth  Baker's  Chains;  an  extended 
list  might  readily  be  made  from  the  plays  of  ^s- 
chylus,  Sophocles,  Goldoni,  Calderon,  Goethe, 
Schiller,  the  Elizabethans,  the  French  classicists, 
the  dramatists  of  the  Restoration.  Of  modern 
plays  falling  without  the  category  of  crisis  may 
be  mentioned  Strindberg's  The  Dream  Play,  Ib- 
sen's When  We  Dead  Awaken,  Maeterlinck's  The 
Blue  Bird,  Barker's  The  Madras  House,  Galswor- 
thy's The  Pigeon.  It  must  be  clear,  from  the  con- 
siderations set  forth  above,  that  a  new  definition 
of  drama  is  demanded.  Such  a  definition  must 
accord  with  the  facts  of  modern  dramatic  prac- 
tice. It  must  represent  a  thoroughly  catholic 
point  of  view.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  recog- 
nized, not  as  final,  but  only  as  tentative — subject 
to  future  modification,  in  order  to  conform  to  the 
practice  of  future  way-breakers  in  dramatic  art. 
The  exhibition  of  will  in  conflict  with  obstacles 
is  assuredly  a  spectacle  perennially  attractive  and 
fascinating  to  the  human  species.  The  games  and 
plays  of  children,  the  sports  of  the  collegian,  the 
professional  contests  of  football,  baseball,  tennis. 


156  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

cricket,  lacrosse,  tlie  prize  fights  of  America,  the 
bull  fights  of  Spain,  tlie  cocking  mains  of  France, 
the  student  duels  of  Germany — all  amply  testify 
to  man's  absorbing  interest  in  a  spectacle  full  of 
conflict,  with  the  added  element  of  danger.  The 
same  tendency  is  prevailingly  manifest  in  the 
drama.  The  plays  of  most  direct  and  immediate 
appeal  to  a  popular  audience  are  those  which  pre- 
sent a  naked  struggle,  with  its  attendant  emo- 
tional excitation.  Volitional  activities  in  mortal 
combat  are  spectacles  surcharged  with  the  max- 
imum of  emotional  excitation.  The  appeal  is  to 
the  baser  emotions  of  the  crowd,  or  even  of  the 
mob,  rather  than  to  the  more  disciplined  and  re- 
strained emotions  of  the  enlightened  individual. 
Such  hand-to-hand,  or  rather,  will-to-will,  con- 
flicts are  only  moderately  frequent  in  every  period 
of  the  drama's  history.  A  man  like  Strindberg 
frankly  says:  "  I  find  the  joy  of  life  in  its  violent 
and  cruel  struggles";  and  Shaw,  who  has  since 
proved  recusant  to  his  avowed  principles,  out- 
spokenly says :  "  Unity,  however  desirable  in  pp- 
litical  agitations,  is  fatal  to  drama,  smce  every 
drama  must  be  the  artistic  presentation  of  a  con- 
flict.  The  end  may  be  reconciliation  or  destruc- 
tion, or/as  in  life  itself,  there_may_  be  no  end; 
but  the  conflict  is  indispensable:  no  conflict,  no 
drama."  Of  modern  plays  embodying  a  conflict 
of  wills,  one  thinks  of  Ibsen's  A   DolVs  House, 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS    ,  157 

Strindberg's  The  Father  and  The  Dance  of  Death, 
Shaw's  Man  and  Superman  and  Candida,  Gals- 
worthy's Strife,  Moody's  The  Great  Divide, 
Jones's  Mrs.  Dane's  Defense,  Wilde's  Salome, 
Bjornson's  A  Gauntlet,  Pinero's  The  Gay  Lord 
Quex,  Galdos's  Electra,  Schnitzler's  Professor 
Bernardhi,  as  typical  illustrations.  Plaj's  of 
this  type,  exhibiting  the  conflict  of  will  with 
will,  constitute  only  a  fraction  of  the  dramas 
successfully  presented  on  a  stage  in  a  theater 
before  an  audience,  in  any  given  historical 
period.  In  the  vast  majority  of  plays,  beyond 
doubt,  there  is  exhibited  an  exercise  of  the 
human  will ;  but  this  human  will  is  not  neces- 
sarily brought  into  direct  conflict  with  another 
human  will.  J.t  may  operate  in  opposition  to  m- 
surmountable  obstacles,  such  as  the  fatality  of  the^^^»  /r, 
ancients,  the  predestination  of  character,  or  the  TJiff^-jh  ' 
dead  hand  of  heredity.     Such  plays — say  Mac-  ^ 

beth,  Wallenstein,  Ghosts — with  disastrous  ending, 
are  classed  as  tragedies.  Again,  the  will  may  be 
shown  in  conflict  with  current  moral  laws,  the 
rules  of  society,  conventional  codes  of  conduct; 
and  in  such  cases — Hugo's  Hernani,  Hebbel's 
Maria  Magdalena,  Dumas's  Fits  Naturel,  Brieux's 
Les  Avaries,  Ibsen's  An  Enemy  of  the  People — 
we  have  the  serious  drama,  in  which  the  end  may 
or  may  not  be  tragic.  If  the  forces  are  more 
nearly  equalized  and  the  consequences  clearly  do 


158  THE  CHANGING  DRAIMA 

not  promise  disaster,  we  have  comedy,  with  its 
various  shadings — MoHere's  Le  Bourgeois  Gentil- 
homme,  Ibsen's  The  League  of  Youth,  Wilde's 
Lady  Windermere's  Fan,  Shaw's  Arms  and  the 
Man.  There  are,  also,  the  two  lower  forms  of 
drama  in  which  the  characters  exist  for  the  sake 
of  the  plot,  and  the  incidents  are  largely  adven- 
j  ^^  titious — melodrama,  a  bastard  form  of  tragedy, 
I*  and  farce,  a  degenerate  form  of  comedy.    In  these 

lower  forms,  free  play  is  given  to  surprise,  sensa- 
tion, accident,  chance,  coincidence;  the  incidents 
are  often  improbable,  verging  upon  the  impossible ; 
and  the  immediate  appeal  is  to  the  more  super- 
ficial, vulgar,  and  easily  stimulated  emotions. 

The  point  of  departure  for  a  new  definition  of 
drama — a  definition  at  best  suggestive,  not  final — 
is  the  school  of  contemporary  dramatists,  includ- 
ing such  names  as  Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Hauptmann, 
Strindberg,  Maeterlinck,  Brieux,  Shaw,  Gorky, 
Wedekind,  Barker,  St.  John  Hankin,  Schnitzlcr, 
Galsworthy.  By  their  practice,  and  not  through 
mere  theorizing,  they  have  compelled  a  new  rating, 
a  fresh  interpretation  of  action  in  the  drama. 
Hitherto,  action  has  been  universally  accepted  as 
an  indispensable  attribute  of  drama;  and  by 
critics  so  remote  in  times  and  tendency  as  Aris- 
totle and  Maeterlinck.  Jhe  latter,  virtually  dis- 
^yowing  the  prinriplp  nf  his  own  static  dramas, 
has  said :  "  Do  what  one  will,  discover  what  mar- 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      159 

yds  one  may,  the  sovereign  law  of  the  stage,  its 
essential  demand,  will  always  be  action — there  are 
no  words  so  profound,  so  noble  and  admirable, 
but  they  will  weary  us  if  they  leave  the  situation 
unchanged,  if  they  lead  to  no  action,  bring  about 
no  decisive  conllict,  or  hasten  no  definite  solution." 
The  whole  trend  ot  contemporary  dramatic  art 
has  been  in  the  direction  of  minifying  material 
action  and  magnifying  emotive,  psychological,  in- 
tellectual, and  spiritual  action.  Shaw  has  em- 
ployed a  suggestive  description  of  the  function 
of  the  new  drama — "  illumination  of  life."  The 
physical  actions,  the  material  incidents,  of  actual 
life  have  largely  ceased  to  be  ends  in  themselves: 
they  have  become  the  means  to  deeper  ends,  the 
revelation  of  character,  the  exhibition  of  the  un- 
derlying motives,  passions,  impulses,  the  dis- ^'Z*  .*** 
closure  of  the  soul — in  a  word,  the  unveiling  of  V'^v*-  •**  7 
the  inner  life  of  man.  "An  event  in  real  life — ic  v^*-V- 
and  this  discovery  is  quite  recent- — ,"  affirms /otvK4^>wA*^ 
^friffffiergT^^springs  generally'  frojn  a  whole  vuJ>XL«.juJt 
series  of  more  or  less  deep-lying  motives.  ..." 
One  of  the  speakers  in  Dryden's  Essay  of  Dra^ 
matic  Poesy  speculatively  observes:  "Every  al- 
teration or  crossing  of  a  design,  every  new-sprung 
passion,  and  turn  of  it,  is  a  part  of  the  action, 
and  much  the  noblest,  except  we  conceive  nothing 
to  be  action  till  the  players  come  to  blows."  I 
would  remind  you  once  more  of  Ibsen's  declara- 


160  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

tion  that  the  ability  to  project  experiences  meTi- 
tally  lived  through  is  the  secret  of  the  literature 
of  modern  times.  And  it  was  assuredly  of  dra- 
matic literature  that  he  was  thinking  when  he 
spoke  these  words.  He  confessed  that  he  never 
began  the  writing  of  a  play  until  he  had  his  dra- 
matic characters  wholly  in  his  power,  and  knew 
them  down  to  the  "  last  folds  of  their  souls." 
.«  Aristotle  said  that  the  drama  must  have  a  begin- 
•  ning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  The  tendency  of  the 
modern  drama  is  to  have  no  beginning,  and  no 
middle,  and  to  begin  where  the  earlier  drama  left 
off.  li^  is  a  drama  of  pure  cuhnination :  the  un- 
rolling of  the  scroll  of  ultimate  human  character. 
Nor  in  a  certain  sense  can  it  be  said  to  have  any 
end ;  for  the  curtain  often  falls  without  finality. 
We  are  left  with  a  haunting  sense  of  the  con- 
tinuity and  endlessness  of  human  life.  The  con- 
temporary drama,  in  its  higher  forms,  is  an 
illustration  of  extreme  artistic  foreshortening. 
The  modern  dramatist  strives  to  penetrate  ever 
deeper  into  the  depths  of  human  consciousness ; 
and  in  his  progress  there  is  the  ceaseless  exposure 
of  the  secret  springs  of  human  conduct.  T?he 
a^c^self  is  introspective,  self-analytical.;  g^e  V^J"- 
^otually  scrutinize  ourselves  at  arm's  length.  The 
popularization  and  diffusion  of  scientific  theories, 
the  widespread  and  ever-increasing  interest  dis- 
played   in    philosopliy,    psychology,    pathology, 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      161 

criminology,  psychiatry,  eugenics ;  the  spread  of 
humanitarian  ideas,  breeding  a  spirit  of  quiescenc£_— »  ^ 
and  peace  rather  than  of  resistance  and  war;  in- 
creased specialization  and  refinement  of  knowledge, 
imposing  the  obligation  of  dispassionate  and  self- 
less research — these  and  similar  forces  co-operate 
masterfully  in  giving  tone  to  the  era.  Mere  acts 
of  violence,  deeds  of  blood,  fortuitous  conjunctures 
and  collisions  are  now  held  to  be  barbaric,  ata- 
vistic, characteristic  of  the  child-mind,  of  the  race 
in  the  primitive  stage.  The  contemporary  feels 
interest  in  the  cause,  not  in  the  details,  of  suicide, 
for  example.  The  query  is  not  How?  but  Why? 
The  ideal  of  modern  heroism  is  self-control  rather 
than  surrender  to  the  promptings  of  the  instincts 
and  the  passions.  Yet  modern  life — who  would 
venture  to  deny  it? — for  all  this  tone  of  quietude, 
of  repression,  furnishes  joys  more  uplifting, 
hopes  more  ardent,  despairs  more  poignant,  trage- 
dies more  hopeless,  than  the  past  ever  cradled  in 
any  age. 

If  it  were  possible  to  accept  conflict  as  the  dif- 
ferentia of  the  drama,  one  might  define  drama  as 
the  art  of  decisions.  But  it  should  now  be  clg^ar  VAiK«|T 
that  decision,  the  exercise  of  will  for  definite  ends, 
.is  not  an  indispensable  criterion  for  the__drama. 
For  the  drama  is  the  meeting  place  of  all  the  arts. 
In  pre-eminent  degree,  it  possesses  both  plastic 
and  pictorial  attributes.     The  easiest,  not  neces- 


162  THE  CHANGING  DRA^IA 

sarily  the  highest,  mode  of  gratifying  the  curi- 
osity and  stimulating  the  interest  of  the  instinc- 
tive spectator  is  to  present  action  on  the  stage, 
action  culminating  in  deeds.  A  psychologist  of 
the  crowd  will  ingeniously  explain  this  as  an  evi- 
dence of  the  prevalence  of  the  mob  instinct  in  the 
theater.  The  theorizings  upon  the  subject  of  the 
psychology  of  crowds  have  been  carried  to  such 
extremes  of  exaggeration  as  to  obscure  in  large 
measure  the  real  purport  of  the  better  drama  of 
our  day. 

The  drama  is  a  democratic  art,  making  its  ap- 
peal to  a  motley  throng  assembled  for  a  limited 
time  within  a  circumscribed  area.  The  wonderful 
effectiveness  of  the  ancient  theater  as  an  instru- 
ment of  public  morality  was  ascribed  by  Bacon  to 
the  influence  of  the  strange  "  secret  of  nature  " 
that  men's  minds  are  more  open  to  passions  and 
impressions  "congregate  than  solitary."  A  soli- 
tary spectator  witnessing  a  performance  of  a  great 
play  by  capable  interpreters  will  receive  certain 
mental  impressions  and  undergo  certain  emotional 
experiences.  Reading  the  text  of  this  same  play 
alone  in  his  study,  he  will  be  deprived  of  many 
of  the  impressions  and  experiences  received  in  the 
theater — the  contributions  of  the  acting,  the  mise- 
en-scene,  and  all  that  goes  under  the  expressive 
term  of  stage-effect.  The  drama  is  an  art  of 
decoration  as  well  as  of  representation,  of  appeal 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      163 

to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the  car,  touching  the 
heart  as  well  as  affecting  the  brain.  Hence  in 
the  theater  the  visual  form  of  the  pictorial,  the 
"  argument  of  the  flesh,"  the  appeal  of  the  plastic, 
are  influences  superadded  to  those  experienced  by 
the  solitary  reader  of  the  text  of  a  play.  And 
this  no  matter  how  well  trained  the  reader  may  be 
in  visualizing  the  sets  of  the  stage,  no  matter  how 
acute  his  powers  of  "  stereoscopic  imagination." 

When  the  solitary  spectator  merges  into  the 
motley  crowd  assembled  in  a  theater,  a  certain 
phenomenon  transpires.  There  is  a  tendency  to- 
ward a  change  from  heterogeneity  in  idea  to 
homogeneity  in  sentiment.  There  is  something 
electric  about  a  crowd — the  individual  senses  a 
pull  of  mass  receptivity — toward  some  sort  of 
consensus  of  opinion  and  feeling.  The  drama 
itself  involves  a  tacit  conspiracy  between  actors 
and  audience — a  certain  remission  of  judgment, 
a  certain  acceptance  of  conventions  peculiar  to 
the  theater.  The  spectators  are  seduced  into 
taking  sides ;  their  sympathies  are  engaged  for 
certain  characters ;  their  convictions  evoked,  their 
emotions  appealed  to,  mayhap  their  nerves  as- 
saulted. Now  just  as  the  string  of  a  musical  in- 
strument gives  forth  a  certain  note  in  response 
to  the  vibrations  set  up  by  a  nearby  tuning  fork, 
so  the  individual  undergoes  certain  mental  and 
emotional  experiences  in  vibratory  response  to  the 


164  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

mass-consciousness  of  the  throng.  He  reacts, 
negatively,  to  the  electrification  of  the  crowd ;  and, 
as  Burton  suggestively  puts  it,  his  private  feeling 
is  enforced  by  the  overtones  of  the  others.  The 
spectator  loses  something  of  intellectual  aloofness 
in  favor  of  instinctive  feeling.  As  Schlcgel  says: 
"  The  effect  produced  by  seeing  a  number  of 
others  share  in  the  same  emotions  is  astonishingly 
powerful." 

The  error  of  careless  disciples  of  Tarde  and  Le 
Bon  consists  in  confusing  the  passions  of  the  mob 
with  the  mental  and  emotional  sentiments  of  the 
audience  in  the  theater.  There  are  two  vicious 
generalizations  made  by  these  whole-hearted  advo- 
cates of  crowd  psychology.  Tlic  one  is  that  the 
individual,  negatively  electrified  by  the  crowd,  re- 
verts to  the  primitive,  savage  state,  and  revels  in 
appeals  to  the  lower  emotions  common  to  all  men 
whether  in  the  civilized  or  barbaric  state.  The 
second  is  that  the  dramatist,  since  it  is  his  object, 
in  Schlegel's  words,  to  "  produce  an  impression 
on  an  assembled  crowd,  to  gain  their  attention, 
and  to  excite  in  them  interest  and  participation," 
must  be,  as  tlic  French  critic  Nisard  said,  "  only 
the  intelligent  echo  of  the  crowd." 

It  is  quite  true  that  the  dramatist  must  make 
his  appeal  to  the  species.  The  man  thus  addressed 
is  clearly  not  the  primitive  man,  but  the  universal 
man.      It    is    quite    true    that    rough-and-tumble 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      165 

farce,  "  sympathetic "  parts  in  melodrama,  and 
stage  villains  all  cater  to  the  primitive  instincts 
in  man.  But  these  things  are  found  in  the  primi- 
tive types  of  plays ;  and  the  individuals  who  con- 
stitute the  audiences  do  not  revert  to  the  primitive 
state:  they  are  themselves  already  in  a  primitive 
state.  The  great  dramatist  appeals,  not  to  com- 
monplace emotions,  not  to  the  uncivilized  mind, 
but  to  the  great  elemental  emotions  and  to  the 
great  sentiments  and  beliefs  which  make  the  whole 
world  kin.  Especially  anachronistic  at  the  present 
moment,  in  face  of  the  great  contemporary  dramas 
of  our  time,  is  the  theory  that  the  modem  audience 
experiences  only  primitive,  inherited  emotions.  If 
the  greatest  achievements  of  the  dramatists  from 
Ibsen  down  to  to-day  signify  anything,  it  is  that 
the  emotions  most  worth  appealing  to  in  the  the- 
ater are  the  higher,  and  not  the  commonplace 
emotions.  The  recognition  has  dawned  that  a 
drama  intellectual  in  texture,  moral  in  tone,  spirit- 
ual in  appeal,  humanitarian  in  intention,  is  a 
powerful  popular  educative  force.  The  function 
of  such  drama  is  not  to  pander  to  commonplace 
feeling,  but  to  serve  as  a  stimulant  and  excitant 
of  the  higher  emotions.  The  emotions  thus  ap- 
pealed to  are  social,  humane.  Christian  in  their 
nature — the  sense  of  brotherhood,  the  idea  of  jus- 
tice and  equality,  the  sentiment  of  social  solidar- 
ity, the  passion  for  social  service,  the  desire  for 


166  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

race  improvement,  the  ideal  of  social  betterment, 
the  common  intention  to  ameliorate  conditions  of 
poverty  and  disease,  sympathy  for  the  wronged 
and  the  afflicted.  The  commonplace  emotions  are 
not  ignored;  but  they  are  in  no  sense  paramount 
in  legitimate  drama.  The  great  theater  for  their 
display  is  in  the  lower  forms  of  drama,  and  the 
motographic  play. 

The  modern  dramatist  has  successfully  shat- 
tered the  theory  that  he  can  be  "  only  the  intel- 
ligent echo  of  the  crowd."  The  dramatists  of  the 
earlier  time  were  content  to  follow  the  laggard 
snail-pace  of  the  crowd.  To  find  the  greatest 
common  denominator  of  the  crowd  and  then  ad- 
dress that  "  ideal  spectator  " — this  is  democracy 
in  art  with  a  vengeance !  The  dramatists  of  the 
newer  dispensation  are  leaders,  not  mere  spokes- 
men, of  the  ideas  and  feelings  of  the  motley  throng 
assembled  in  the  playhouse.  They  do  not  exhibit 
the  mere  "  reversion  to  type "  of  the  primitive 
individuals  in  the  audience  imagined  by  the  disci- 
ples of  Le  Bon.  They  have  proven  themselves  to 
be  leaders  in  thought,  exemplars  of  the  higher 
emotions  destined  to  become  the  common  heritage 
of  the  race. 

A  chasm  yawns  between  the  present  and  the 
past.  The  spectator  at  the  drama  of  the  past 
might  thus  have  voiced  his  appreciation  to 
the  dramatist :  "  How  grateful  I  am  to  you  for 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      167 

actually  expressing  what  I  have  often  felt  but 
never  put  in  words !  "  The  spectator  at  the  con- 
temporary drama  often  feels  like  saying  to  the 
dramatist:  "  How  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  bring- 
ing out  in  me  latent,  unsuspected  funds  of  thought 
and  emotion !  You  have  given  me  to  think  what 
I  might,  but  never  actually,  have  thought  before. 
You  have  inspired  in  me  emotions  which  I  might 
have  felt  before,  but  actually  never  have  felt  until 
now."  Ibsen  wrote  for  a  great  cosmopolitan  audi- 
ence— and  not,  save  in  a  few  of  the  dramas  of 
the  middle  period,  for  Norway.  Fru  Ibsen  once 
told  me  with  the  utmost  earnestness  that  her  hus- 
band regarded  Germany,  both  intellectually  and 
artistically,  as  his  home  land.  Even  the  unlikely 
assumption  that  he  wrote  always  for  the  "  old 
folks  at  home  in  Norway  "  only  serves  to  demon- 
strate how  far  the  great  radical  dramatist,  Ibsen, 
was  ahead  of  his  time.  Both  for  Norway  and  for  l^nM-^ 
Europe,  Ibsen  was  never  "only  the  intejlig^t  ccho^  ^X4tf  j 
of  tjie  yrnwd  " ;  he  was,  in  lus  own  words,  a  franc-  * 
tireur  along  the  firing  line  of  intellectual  advance.  7  ^^ 

And  Ibsen  is  the  world's  greatest  dramatist  since 
Moliere. 

Indeed,  we  are  coming  nowadays  to  realize  that 
the  drama  is  a  great  form  of  thinking,  as  well  as 
vehicle  of  emotion.  We  are  coming  to  realize  that 
to  stimulate  thought  through  the  medium  of  the 
emotions  is  only  a  very  partial,  a  very  limited 


168  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

conception  of  the  function  of  the  drama.  At  no 
time  in  the  world's  history,  I  dare  say,  has 
thought,  has  pliilosophy  in  the  larger  sense,  played 
so  large  a  part  in  the  drama.  Many  modern  dram- 
atists, themselves  incapable  of  rising  to  the 
heights  of  great  and  original  thinking,  have  suc- 
ceeded in  rejflecting,  at  lower  candle  power,  some 
of  the  great  intellectual  lights  of  the  century — in 
this  way  familiarizing  the  popular  mind  with 
novel  ideas,  and  so  leading  the  way  of  civili- 
zation. Modern  dramatic  art  effectively  be- 
lies the  assertion  of  Letourneau  that  the  drama 
"  cannot  express  more  than  the  average  of  the  pre- 
vailing opinions,  of  the  ideas  current  in  the  sur- 
rounding social  medium."  Intellectual  iconoclasts, 
as  well  as  esthetic  revolutionaries,  dramatists  like 
Ibsen,  Bjornson,  Hauptmann,  Brieux,  Shaw  have 
raised  and  continue  to  raise  whole  strata  of  society 
to  the  intellectual  and  emotional  level  which  they, 
as  chosen  and  advanced  individuals,  once  enjoyed 
in  more  than  comparative  isolation. 

The  emotions  experienced  by  a  solitary  spec- 
tator at  a  play  differ  in  degree,  but  not  in  kind, 
from  those  he  would  experience  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  in  the  playhouse.  The  crowd  heightens  the 
intensity  of  his  emotion,  but  is  incapable  of  chang- 
ing its  nature.  We  live  in  an  enlightened  age ; 
and  the  audiences  for  the  better  dramas  of  our 
epoch  are,  in  the  vast  majority,  enlightened  indi- 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      169 

viduals.  The  simple  fact  is  that  these  individuals 
do  not  relapse  atavistically  in  the  theater.  The 
playhouse  is  not  the  cradle  of  "  Judge  Lynch." 
The  ideas,  the  opinions  cherished  by  the  individual 
spectator  of  to-day,  are  incapable  of  being  warped 
by  the  applause  or  the  hisses  of  the  unintelligent. 
With  the  tremendous  growth  of  interest  in  the 
drama,  the  publication  of  plays,  the  increase  in 
the  number  and  influence  of  dramatic  and  theatric 
organizations,  the  extension  of  educational  facili- 
ties of  all  kinds,  the  average  spectator  at  the  the- 
ater, like  the  average  spectator  at  the  professional 
ball  game,  has  become  a  critic  "  on  his  own."  He 
is  not  stampeded  by  the  noise  of  the  theater 
"  fan."  He  sits  tight  in  his  own  convictions,  and 
retains  a  clear  mind  for  the  formation  of  his  own 
opinion.  Entering  the  theater  to  be  amused,  he  is 
willing  to  be  edified.  Ready  for  a  hearty  laugh 
and  two  hours  of  enjoyment,  he  or  she — and  the 
percentage  of  women  in  modern  theater  audiences 
throughout  the  world  is  very  large — has  a  brain 
open  enough,  a  heart  big  enough,  to  respond  to 
the  larger  message  of  the  thought  and  the  con- 
science of  our  time. 

Hauptmann's  Das  Friedensfest  bears  upon  its 
title  page  as  motto  the  following  significant  pas- 
sage from  Lessing:  "  They  find  action  in  no  trag- 
edy, but  that  in  which  the  lover  kneels  down,  etc. 
It  has  never  struck  them  that  every  internal  con- 


170  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

flict  of  passions,  every  sequence  of  antagonistic 
thoughts,  where  one  annihilates  the  otlier,  may  also 
be  an  action ;  perhaps  they  think  and  feel  too 
mechanically  to  be  conscious  of  any  activity.  To 
refute  them  seriously  were  serious  labor."  The 
leading  contemporary  dramatists,  Ibsen,  Bjorn- 
son,  Hauptmann,  Schnitzler,  Strindberg,  Brieux, 
Shaw,  Galsworthy,  in  tragedy,  tragi-comedy,  com- 
edy and  even  farce,  have  imported  a  new  kind  of 
action  into  the  drama.  In  the  earlier  dramas,  there 
was  sometimes  an  "  argument  "  which,  in  anticipa- 
tion, set  forth  in  condensed  form  the  plot  of  the 
play.  In  such  dramas,  the  dialogue,  the  spoken 
words,  the  gestures,  served  but  as  commentaries 
upon  the  actions  of  the  characters.  In  the  higher 
dramas  of  to-day,  the  play  is  itself  the  argument. 
The  exposition  is  no  longer  the  means  of  exhibit- 
ing the  action:  it  is  the  action  itself.  The  dialogue 
is  the  drama.  We  see  before  us  individual  person- 
alities with  strong  convictions  and  definite  phi- 
losophies of  life.  The  real  drama  issues  from  the 
._stru^glp  nf  thpsp  r'nf[f^''^^^i"Jr  j2pnceptions  of  life. 
When  Richard  Mansfield  considered  Shaw's  Carv- 
dida  for  production,  only  to  reject  it,  he  suc- 
cinctly expressed  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  William  Win- 
ter (April  10,  1895)  the  conventional  attitude  of 
the  past :  "  There  is  no  change  of  scene  in  three 
acts,  and  no  action  beyond  moving  from  a  chair 
to  a  sofa,  and  vice  versa.     O,  ye  Gods  and  little 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      171 

fishes !  "  In  illustration  of  the  more  modern  atti- 
tude, one  may  cite  Oscar  Wilde,  who  asserted  that 
he  wrote  the  first  act  of  A  Woman  of  No  Impor- 
tance in  answer  to  the  complaint  of  the  critics 
that  Lady  Windermere's  Fan  was  lacking  in  ac- 
tion. "  In  the  act  in  question,"  says  Wilde,  "  there 
was  absolutely  no  action  at  all.  It  was  a  perfect 
act." 

A  well-constructed  drama,  says  Eloesser,  is  like 
a  lawsuit,  in  which  the  parties  to  the  suit  are  per- 
mitted to  speak  only  the  essential  things.  In  a 
sense,  a  drama  of  Shaw  or  Brieux,  to  employ  a 
French  law  term,  is  a  dramatic  proce s-verbal. 
The  dramatist  presents  the  characters  as  right 
from  their  several  points  of  view,  and  resolutely 
refuses  to  take  sides.  The  work  of  a  dramatist 
like  Galsworthy  often  fails  to  stir  the  emotions 
because  of  this  extreme  impossibility,  this  inflexi- 
ble sense  of  rectitude  and  fairness.  The  newer 
comedy  of  our  time  arises  from  the  unveiling  of 
the  motives  of  character,  the  ruthless  exposure  of 
sentimental,  crude,  irrational,  antiquated,  conven- 
tional views  of  life.  In  this  new  comedy  we  ob- 
serve less  a  conflict  of  wills  than  a  clash  of  ideas. 
Oscar  Wilde  once  observed  that  the  greatest  dra- 
matic effects  are  produced  by  a  conflict  between 
our  artistic  sympathies  and  our  moral  judgment. 
Ibsen's  whole  series  of  social  dramas  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  series  of  conflicts  between  the  newer 


172  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

and  the  older  ideas  and  ideals.  In  his  Introduc- 
tion to  The  Cenci,  Shelley — who  possessed  deep 
insiffht  into  the  essentials  of  the  dramatic  art — 
shrewdly  observes :  "  It  is  in  the  restless  and 
anatomizing  casuistry  with  which  men  seek  the 
justification  of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she  has  done 
what  needs  justification;  it  is  in  the  superstitious 
horror  with  which  they  contemplate  alike  her 
wrongs  and  their  revenge,  that  the  dramatic  char- 
acter of  what  she  did  and  suffered  consists."  An 
excellent  example  of  the  play  of  conflicting  ideas 
and  sentiments,  falling  outside  the  contemporary 
dramatic  movement,  is  Le  Gendre  de  M.  Potrier 
of  Augier  and  Sandeau. 

The  characteristic  examples  of  modern  drama 
exhibit  the  merciless  unmasking  of  conventional 
morality,  of  social  hypocrisy,  of  conspiracies  of 
silence.  They  are  essentially  dramas  of  disil- 
lusionment. The  process  of  disillusionment  is  the 
drama.  The  comic  dramatist  forces  his  audience 
to  laugh  at  the  victim  while  he  is  being  disillusion- 
ized ;  the  more  serious  dramatist  moves  the  spec- 
tator to  pity  and  terror  over  the  spectacle  of  the 
disastrous  consequences  of  acting  in  blind  obedi- 
ence to  views  of  life  which  are  patently  false  and 
illuding.  Bernard  Shaw  has  given  graphic  de- 
scription of  his  own  comedies  in  the  definition :  the 
function  of  comedy  is  nothing  less  than  the  de- 
struction    of     old-established     morals.      "  People 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      173 

imagine,"  he  observes,  "  that  actions  and  feelings 
are  dictated  by  moral  systems,  by  religious  sys- 
tems, by  codes  of  honor  and  conventions  of  con- 
duct which  lie  outside  the  real  human  will.  Now 
it  is  a  part  of  my  gift  as  a  dramatist  that  I  know 
that  these  conventions  do  not  supply  them  with 
their  motives.  They  make  very  plausible  ex  post 
facto  excuses  for  their  conduct;  but  the  real  mo- 
tives are  deep  down  in  the  will  itself.  And  so  an 
infinite  comedy  arises  in  every-day  life  from  the 
contrast  between  the  real  motives  and  the  alleged 
artificial  motives."  The  dramatist  refuses  to  be 
imposed  upon,  and  forces  his  audience  either  to 
laugh  consumedly  at  the  imposture,  or  sympa- 
thetically to  discern  behind  the  imposture  the  aus- 
tere face  of  tragedy. 

That  fine  French  actor,  the  late  Edmond  Got, 
in  the  first  volume  of  his  Diary,  has  tersely  ex- 
pressed the  function  of  the  drama,  according  to 
conventional  standards,  in  the  following  passage: 
"  So  long  as  there  are  opposed  interests  on  the 
stage,  situations  that  is  to  say,  and  these  as  strong 
as  possible,  if  it  all  holds  together  and  is  carried 
out  in  a  more  or  less  logical  crescendo,  you  have 
bagged  your  game,  Vaffaire  est  dans  le  sac." 
Here  we  see  represented  all  the  classic  require- 
ments expressed  in  colloquial  form :  the  "  opposed 
interests  "  to  furnish  the  desiderated  conflict ;  the 
"  structural  union  of  the  parts  "  so  dogmatically 


174  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

insisted  upon  by  Aristotle ;  the  "  cumulative  inter- 
est "  of  the  series  of  events  moving  toward  a 
crisis ;  and  action  which  consists  of  "  plot  and  in- 
cidents "  so  arresting  in  their  nature  as  to  main- 
tain "  continuity  of  interest."  It  is  against  the 
hampering  restrictions  of  these  classic  require- 
ments that  the  new  school  of  dramatists,  in  Eng- 
land and  on  the  Continent,  continue  to  protest, 
both  critically  and  constructively.  Indeed  the  nat- 
uralist, no  matter  of  what  nationality,  abjures  the 
artificial  '"''  preparation "  of  the  French  school; 
displaces  plot  in  favor  of  a  series  of  graphically 
noted  scenes  which,  in  themselves,  constitute  a  sug- 
gestive epitome  of  a  certain  phase  of  human  life; 
and  reduces  action  to  its  lowest  terms  by  present- 
ing,  as  a  substitute  for  thingsdone ,  thp  rlR«^h  "^ 
mind  on  mind,  the  pressure  of  character  against 
character,  or  the  straining  of  the  soul  on  the 
leasfi"  of  heredity,  environment,  institutionalism, 
social  determinism.  There  are  no  such  things  as 
"  scenes  "  in  the  conventional  theatrical  sense  with 
Hauptmann  in  his  social  dramas,  for  example ;  life 
is  continuous  and  consecutive.  In  such  plays,  the 
interest  is  not  cumulative  from  act  to  act :  every- 
thing is  on  the  same  dead  level  of  interest.  The 
incidents  are  juxtaposed,  as  in  life,  rather  than 
interwoven,  as  in  art. 

A  somewhat  different  aspect  of  the  new  dram- 
aturgy is   afforded   by  the   plays   of  Barker,  of 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      175 

Galsworthy,  of  Shaw,  and  the  younger  school  of 
British  playwrights.  Impartial,  many-sided  dis- 
cussion of  a  specific  problem  or  a  definite  situation, 
devoid  of  real  action  save  that  of  powerful  cere- 
bration— this  is  an  accurate  description  of  The 
Madras  House,  of  Getting  Married,  of  The 
Pigeon.  Such  a  play  is  not  a  structural  union 
of  organic  parts :  it  is  a  series  of  mental  films  of 
the  same  object  taken  from  different  angles.  The 
speech  of  the  characters,  to  employ  a  happy 
phrase  of  Meredith,  "  rambles  concentrically." 
It  is  much  as  if  some  definite  question  of  human 
life — marriage,  poverty,  an  immoral  inheritance, 
the  relation  of  the  sexes,  civic  responsibility — 
were  set  upon  a  revolving  pedestal;  and  as  it  re- 
volves, the  many  facets  of  the  subject  are  reflected 
in  the  minds  of  the  characters.  In  thfe  main  the 
unities  of  time  and  place  are  observed;  thete  is 
unity  of  impression  only  in  the  sense  that  a  single 
subject  is  seen  in  contrariety,  caught  in  the  mir- 
rors of  sharply  delineated  mentalities.  Such  art 
is  not  life  seen  through  the  prism  of  the  tempera- 
ment of  the  artist:  it  is  life,  a_cprner_of  exist- 
ence or  a  phase  of  social  thought,  seen  through 
the  many  temperaments  of  the  artist's  dramatic 
characters.  This  new  species  of  drama  is  essenti- 
ally intellectual  in  its  appeal ;  it  may  or  may  not  be 
propagandist  in  spirit,  depending  entirely  on  the 
temperament  of  the  individual  artist.     Shaw  and 


176  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Brieux  represent  the  extreme  propagandist  ele- 
ment ;  Barker  occupies  the  middle  ground ;  whilst 
Galsworthy  and  Tch^^k|jov  represent  tli(Ljm£,^f" 
^sibilitv  of  consistent  realism.  Thus  Shaw  says 
that  "  an  interesting  play  cannot  in  the  nature 
of  things,  mean  anything  but  a  play  in  which 
problems  of  conduct  and  character  of  personal 
importance  to  the  audience  are  raised  and  sug- 
gestively discussed  " ;  and  accordingly  "  we  now 
have  plays,  including  some  of  my  own,  which  be- 
gin with  discussion  and  end  with  action,  and  others 
in  which  the  discussion  interpenetrates  the  action 
from  beginning  to  end." 

The  intellectual  rather  than  the  emotive  tex- 
ture of  contemporary  drama  has  been  accentuated 
by  Hauptmann :  "  I  believe  the  drama  to  be  the 
expression  of  genuine  mental  activity,  in  a  stage 
of  high  development.  .  .  .  From  this  aspect 
there  results  a  series  of  consequences  which  en- 
large endlessly  the  range  of  the  drama  beyond 
that  of  the  ruling  dramaturgies  on  all  sides,  so 
that  nothing  that  presents  itself,  either  outwardly 
or  inwardly,  can  be  excluded  from  this  form  of 
thinking,  which  has  become  a  form  of  art."  In 
protest  against  the  conception  of  drama  as  a 
conflict  of  wills  and  of  the  dramatist  as  a  "  Pro- 
fessor of  Energy,"  Brieux  insists  that  the  theater 
"  will  be  obliged,  more  and  more  as  time  goes  on, 
to  devote  itself  to  the  study  of  the  great  topics 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      177 

of  the  day."  For  his  part,  Galsworthy  denies 
that  it  is  the  function  of  the  artist  to  work  for  a 
practical  end.  "  It  is  the  business  of  the  artist," 
he  reservedly  says,  "  to  set  down  just  what  he  sees 
and  what  he  feels,  to  be  negative  rather  than  posi- 
tive." At  the  same  time,  he  acknowledges  that 
"  the  writer's  own  temperamental  feeling  gives  the 
hint  of  a  solution  to  his  readers  " ;  but  "  the  solu- 
tion is  conveyed  in  flux." 

The  most  conspicuous  practitioner  on  the  Con- 
tinent of  the  dramaturgy  which  abjures  action 
and  dispenses  with  the  "  dramatic  "  is  Tchekhov. 
In  such  a  play  as  The  Cherry  Garden,  for  ex- 
ample, absolutely  nothing  happens— in  the  ordi- 
nary sense  of  the  term ;  there  is  no  conflict  of  wills, 
the  leading  characters  are  deficient  in  th?  faculty 
of  voHtional  decision.  Yet  in  this,  as  in  his  other 
plays,  there  is  an  infinitude  of  psychological  ac- 
tion :  soul  struggles,  bankruptcies  of  will,  catastro- 
phes of  indecision,  tragedies  of  passivity.  Many 
of  Maeterlinck's  plays  have  accustomed  us  to  the 
character  of  passive  acceptance  and  the  play  of 
quiescence ;  such  plays  are  adventures  of  the  soul 
in  quest  of  the  unknown.  In  speaking  of  Shake- 
speare, Wilde  once  said :  "  It  is  because  he  did 
nothing  that  he  has  been  able  to  achieve  every- 
thing." In  a  classic  passage,  Maeterlinck  says: 
"  To  me,  Othello  does  not  appear  to  live  the  au- 


178  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

gust  dally  life  of  Hamlet,  who  has  time  to  live, 
inasmuch  as  he  does  not  act." 

The  guiding  principle  of  the  new  school,  the  ex- 
perimental school,  is  the  intention  to  show  us  real 
life,  in  its  simple,  normal,  sincere  aspects,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  reveal  to  us  exactly  what  is  tran- 
spiring in  the  minds  of  characters  placed  in  such 
circumstances.  Real  life  is  not  packed  full  of 
crises ;  real  life,  save  at  rather  rare  moments,  is 
not  "  dramatic."  So  we  hear  a  man  like  Barker 
making  his  plea  for  the  "  normal  drama  " — "  nor- 
mal plays  about  and  for  normal  people,  capable  of 
normal  success  under  normal  conditions."  Such  a 
drama  must  present  an  undistorted  view  of  life; 
it  must  be  "  a  comedy  which  shall  reflect  and 
clarify,  honestly  and  humorously,  many  aspects 
of  the  confused  life  around  us."  It  is  not  the 
"  serious  drama,"  or  the  "  advanced  drama,"  or  the 
"  intellectual  drama  "  that  these  men  are  trying  to 
produce.  It  is  the  "  sincere  drama  "  which  Tchek- 
hov,  Hankin,  Galsworthy,  Barker,  Houghton,  and 
their  congeners  are  striving  to  create:  the  drama 
which  shall  make  interesting  on  the  stage  the  things 
which  interest  us  in  ordinary,  every-day  life — 
things  trivial  enough  in  themselves,  yet  in  their 
setting  more  touching,  more  moving,  more  affect- 
ing than  all  the  dramatic  conjunctures,  theatrical 
episodes,  the  artificial  and  far-fetched  situations  of 
the  theater  of  commerce.    One  of  the  most  gifted 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      179 

exponents  in  the  United  States  of  this  sincere 
drama  is  Mr.  George  Middleton.  In  his  one-act 
plays,  the  art  form  which  he  has  achieved  with 
deserved  success,  he  exhibits  refreshing  sincerity, 
earnestness,  and  reserve. 

The  merely  dramatic  element  in  life  is  coming 
to  be  recognized  as  essentially  occasional;  its 
transposition  to  the  stage  imparts  to  it  the  note 
of  the  factitious.  It  is  the  human  element,  the 
pathos  of  "little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts," 
the  courage  to  endure  the  life  that  is,  the  idealism 
that  goes  forward  in  the  face  of  indifference  and 
hostility,  the  tragi-comedy  of  all  that  we  are,  of 
all  that  we  fear  and  hope — this  is  the  material  of 
the  new  drama.  "  Sincerity  bars  out  no  themes," 
says  Galsworthy  in  a  suggestive  passage:  " — it 
only  demands  that  the  dramatist's  moods  and  vis- 
ions should  be  intense  enough  to  keep  him  ab- 
sorbed; that  he  should  have  something  to  say  so 
engrossing  to  himself  that  he  has  no  need  to  stray 
here  and  there  and  gather  purple  plums  to  eke  out 
what  was  intended  for  an  apple  tart.  Here  is  the 
heart  of  the  matter:  You  cannot  get  sincere 
drama  out  of  those  who  do  not  see  and  feel  with 
sufficient  fervor;  and  you  cannot  get  good,  sin- 
cere drama  out  of  persons  with  a  weakness  for 
short  cuts.  There  are  no  short  cuts  to  the  good  in 
art." 

In  the  light  of  the  contributions  of  the  experi- 


180  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

mental  and  pioneering  dramatists  of  the  contem- 
porary era,  I  shall  make  an  effort  to  formulate  a 
working  definition  of  a  play.  It  is  important  to 
note  that  our  vocabulary  of  dramatic  criticism  is 
deficient  in  the  requisite  terms  for  including  all  the 
species  of  plays  which  find  a  place  on  the  boards. 
We  have  no  exact  analogue,  pithy,  and  concise, 
for  the  German  term  Schauspiel.  The  bourgeois 
drama  is  only  imperfectly  rendered  by  domestic 
drama ;  an  even  less  desirable  term  is  the  drama  of 
middle-class  life.  The  very  thing  we  are  dis- 
cussing has  itself  become  suspect.  A  drama  is, 
from  its  very  derivation,  a  branch,  not  of  statics, 
but  of  kinetics.  It  really  means  a  doing,  an  action 
of  some  sort,  through  the  intermediary  of  human 
beings.  Yet  we  are  confronted  to-day  with  a  start- 
ling contradiction  in  terms ;  for,  as  we  have  shown, 
many  contemporary  dramatists  produce  theater- 
pieces  which  are  successfully  produced  before 
popular  audiences,  in  which  the  tone  is  contempla- 
tive and  not  active.  In  such  plays  the  stress  is 
thrown  upon  being  to  the  virtual  exclusion  of  do- 
ing. We  are  driven,  finally,  to  a  definition,  not 
of  the  drama,  but  of  the  play. 

A  play  is  any  presentation  of  human  life  by  hu- 
man interpreters  on  a  stage  in  a  theater  before  a 
representative  audience.  The  play  intrinsically, 
and  its  representation  by  the  interpreters,  must 
be  so  effective,  interesting,  and  moving  as  to  induce 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      181 

the  normal  individual  in  appreciable  numbers  to 
make  a  sacrifice  of  money  and  time,  either  one  or 
both,  for  the  privilege  of  witnessing  its  perform- 
ance. The  subject  of  a  play  may  be  chosen  from 
life  on  the  normal  plane  of  human  experience  or 
the  higher  plane  of  fantasy  and  imagination.  Both 
the  action  and  the  characters  of  the  play  may  be 
dynamic,  static,  or  passive.  By  action  is  desig- 
nated every  exhibition  of  revelative  mobility  in  the 
characters  themselves,  whether  corporeal  or  spirit- 
ual, relevant  to  the  processes  of  elucidation  and 
exposition  of  the  play;  as  well  as  all  events,  ex- 
plicit or  implicit,  in  the  outer  world  of  deed  or  the 
inner  life  of  thought,  present  or  antecedent,  which 
directly  affect  the  destinies  of  the  characters,  im- 
mediately or  ultimately.  The  characters  may  be 
evolutional,  static,  or  mechanical — ranging  from 
the  higher  forms  of  tragedy,  comedy,  tragi- 
comedy through  all  forms  of  the  play  down  to  the 
lower  species  of  melodrama,  farce,  and  pantomime. 
A  common,  but  not  an  indispensable,  attribute 
of  the  play  is  a  crisis  in  events,  material,  intellect- 
ual or  emotional,  or  a  culminating  succession  of 
such  crises ;  and  such  crisis  generally,  but  by  no 
means  invariably,  arises  out  of  a  conflict  involving 
the  exercise  of  the  human  will  in  pursuit  of  de- 
siderated ends.  A  play  may  be  lacking  in  the  ele- 
ments of  conflict  and  crisis,  either  or  both ;  since 
the  pictorial  and  plastic,  in  an  era  of  the  picture- 


18a  THE  CHANGING  DRA^IA 

frame  stage  in  especial,  are  themselves  legitimate 
and  indispensable  instrumentalities  of  stage  rep- 
resentation. A  play  cannot  be  purely  static,  can- 
not wholly  eliminate  action.  Physical,  corporeal 
action  may  nevertheless  be  reduced  to  its  lowest 
terms ;  and  in  such  plays  the  action  consists  in  the 
play  of  the  intellect  and  of  the  emotions.  All 
dramas  are  plays ;  all  plays  are  not  dramas.  The 
drama  may  be  defined  as  the  play  in  which  there  is 
a  distinctive  plot,  involving  incidents  actively  par- 
ticipated in  by  the  characters ;  a  plot  must  be  of 
such  a  nature  that  it  can  be  clearly  disengaged 
and  succinctly  narrated  as  a  story.  A  drama  in- 
volves the  functioning  of  the  human  will,  whether 
in  the  individual  or  in  the  mass;  and  includes 
within  itself  a  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  human  beings. 
Dramatic  is  a  term  descriptive  of  the  qualities  in- 
herent in,  indispensable  to,  the  drama.  A  play 
may  or  may  not  be  dramatic.  A  drama  is  a  par- 
ticular kind  of  play. 

The  characteristic  features  of  the  contemporary 
play,  as  the  result  of  the  revolution  of  technic, 
may  now  be  detailed.  They  are,  concretely,  the 
transposition  of  the  crucial  conjuncture  from  the 
outer  world  to  the  inner  life;  the  enlargement  of 
the  conception  of  the  dramatic  conflict  in  order  to 
include  the  clash  of  differing  conceptions  of  con- 
duct, standards  of  morality,  codes  of  ethics,  phi- 
losophies of  life ;  the  participation  in  such  conflicts 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  ILLUSIONS      183 

not  only  of  individuals,  but  also  of  type  embodi- 
ments of  social  classes  or  even  segments  of  the 
social  classes  themselves ;  the  elimination  of  both 
conflict  and  crisis  without  denaturization  of  the 
literary  species  known  as  the  play;  the  invention 
of  the  technic  by  which  a  single  subject  is  explored 
from  many  points  of  view,  as  distinguished  from 
the  earlier  technic  in  which  many  subjects  are  ex- 
hibited from  a  single  point  of  view.  Most  pro- 
found and  far-reaching  of  all  changes  has  been  the 
change  wrought  by  the  revolutionary  spirit  in 
morals,  ethics,  and  social  philosophy.  The  social 
has  been  added  to  the  individual  outlook ;  the  tem- 
poral has  been  surcharged  with  the  spirit  of  the 
eternal.  The  contemporary  playwright  devotes 
his  highest  eff'ort  to  the  salutary,  if  not  wholly 
grateful  task,  of  freeing  mankind  from  the  illu- 
sions which  obsess  and  mislead.  Until  the  scales 
fall  from  his  eyes,  the  modem  man  cannot  stand 
high  and  free,  cannot  fight  the  great  fight  against 
physical,  social,  institutional,  and  moral  determin- 
ism. The  drama  of  the  modem  era  is  essentially 
the  drama  of  disillusion. 


VII 

THE  NEW  TECHNIC 

"  The  critic  will  be  always  showing  us  the  work  of  art  in 
some  new  relation  to  our  age.  He  will  always  be  reminding 
us  that  great  works  of  art  are  living  things." — Oscae  Wilde. 

The  average  spectator  In  a  theater  uncon- 
sciously accepts,  as  "  part  of  the  game,"  the  de- 
vices of  authors  and  stage-managers  to  relieve  the 
sense  of  unnaturalness  inseparable  from  all  stage 
representations.  After  becoming  a  confirmed 
playgoer,  his  sense  of  naturalness  becomes  less 
exigent ;  his  acceptance  of  inevitable  unnatural- 
ness becomes  second-nature  with  him.  Only  some 
gross  violation  of  probabilities  or  some  absurd 
lapse  in  fitness  wakes  him,  with  a  start,  to  a  real- 
ization of  the  tissue  of  conventions  in  which  he  is 
enveloped.  When  I  witnessed  Rostand's  Chante- 
cler  in  Paris,  it  was  the  fiction  of  illusion  which  was 
uppermost  througliout.  One's  attention  was  suc- 
cessfully diverted  from  such  secondary  conditions 
as  the  meaning  of  the  piece  and  the  poetic  elo- 
quence of  the  lines  to  such  primary  considerations 
as :  "  How  wonderfully,  ridiculously  like  a  black- 
bird is  Gallpaux,  with  his  capricious  hops  and 
185 


186  THE  CHANGING  DRAINIA 

flirts !  "  or  "  What  a  wonderful  mechanical  device 
it  must  be  which  enables  the  peacock  to  spread  its 
tail !  "  or  "  How  very  unlike  nature  are  many  of 
those  lumpy,  awkward,  costumed  creatures !  "  It 
was  quite  another  thing  to  me  with  Maeterlinck's 
Blue  Bird  in  London ;  the  figures  were  s3'mbolic, 
not  realistic,  and  it  was  no  strain  upon  the  imag- 
ination, "  ready  and  willing  "  to  accept  the  per- 
sonification of  a  loaf  of  bread  or  a  jug  of  milk. 

To  secure  the  requisite  sense  of  illusion  in  the 
theater,  it  is  always  a  question  of  adapting  the 
play  to  the  proper  plane  of  convention ;  the  effort 
to  make  the  plane  of  poetic  fantasy  coincide  with 
the  plane  of  complete  realism  clearly  promises 
disaster.  Despite  their  extravagant  conventional- 
ity, the  drawings  of  the  heroes  of  the  Cherokees 
executed  by  native  artists  serve  as  models  for  the 
Indians  of  the  particular  epoch — so  realistic  are 
the  piercing  eyes,  the  aquiline  nose,  the  prominent 
cheek-bones,  the  cruel  lips.  In  certain  arts,  an 
effort  at  closer  approach  to  naturalness  results 
in  increased  artificiality.  One  sees  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg, for  example,  busts  executed  in  marbles  of 
various  colors,  dexterously  joined  together.  This 
attempted  realism  only  accentuates  the  sense  of 
the  conventions  employed.  Indeed,  after  a  time, 
convention  itself  becomes  reality.  Any  attempt  at 
replacing  the  convention  by  a  photographically 
realistic    representation    only    ends    disastrously. 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  187 

Any  audience  will  accept  without  the  flutter  of  an 
eyelid  the  conventional  Viking's  ship.  A  perfect 
model  of  such  real  Viking's  ships  as  I  have  seen  in 
the  National  Museum  of  Christiania,  Norway, 
with  its  excessive  fragility,  primitive  log  deck- 
cabin,  and  incredible  smallness,  would  strike  the 
average  stage  audience  if  presented  on  the  stage 
in  a  play  as  a  patent  absurdity.  All  the  arts  take 
something  for  granted.  The  artist  and  the  spec- 
tator enter  into  a  conspiracy  to  wink  at  this,  to 
accept  that,  in  the  interest  of  art.  For  however 
realistic  may  be  the  temper  of  any  age,  art  is  not 
and  can  never  be  mere  photographic  and  exact  im- 
itation of  life. 

All  art  rests  upon  convention.  The  drama, 
which  musters  all  the  other  arts  into  its  service, 
involves  innumerable  tacit  agreements  between 
actors  and  audience.  The  drama  is  the  most  ob- 
jective, most  impersonal  of  all  the  arts,  the  re- 
sult of  the  restrictions  of  physical  and  mechanical 
conditions.  Yet  it  is,  indubitably,  that  form  of 
art  which  involves  the  greatest  number  of  implied 
contracts.  There  is  a  tacit  agreement  between 
player  and  spectator  that  certain  flagrant 
breaches  of  veracity  are  to  be  winked  at — in  fact, 
positively  ignored ;  the  requisite  degree  of  the 
illusion  of  reality  is  absolutely  precluded  by  the 
refusal  to  become  a  partner  in  this  necessarily  mu- 
tual compact.    This  tacit  conspiracy,  if  originally 


188  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

carried  out  in  the  proper  spirit,  becomes  in  course 
of  time  a  totally  unconscious  process  in  the  mind 
of  the  spectator.  The  moment  one  enters  the  thea- 
ter he  becomes  a  willing  believer  in  the  artificial 
operations  of  a  mimic  world,  ruled  by  many  laws 
and  governed  by  many  conventions,  which  do  not 
obtain  in  the  world  of  actuality.  As  the  sculptor 
does  not  hesitate  to  execute  a  statue  of  George 
Washington  in  bronze,  of  Booker  Washington  in 
marble,  so  a  Wagner  produces  a  music  drama  deal- 
ing with  a  race  of  beings  whose  only  mode  of  vocal 
communication  is  that  of  song.  I  cannot  recall 
making  a  more  palpable  effort  to  fulfil  the  spec- 
tator's part  in  the  contract  than  when  I  attended 
performances  of  the  classic  French  drama  at  the 
Comedie  Fran9aise,  and  writhed  under  the  mechan- 
ical beat  of  the  alexandrine,  the  conventionality  of 
the  intonations,  the  interminable  length  of  the 
tirades.  The  shrill  screams  of  Mounet-Sully  at 
the  Theatre  Francais,  the  conventionality  of  his 
postures  and  gestures,  the  spasmodic  convulsive- 
ncss  with  which  he  carries  off  the  interminable 
longueurs,  all  serve  to  tax  the  patience  of  the  mat- 
ter-of-fact Anglo-Saxon,  unaccustomed  to  the  con- 
ventions of  French  acting  in  the  interpretation  of 
Greek  drama.  In  the  Japanese  tragic  drama,  the 
actors  wear  masks,  and  every  gesture,  every  tone 
of  voice,  is  an  inherited  convention.  A  hand  is 
held  two  inches  in  front  of  the  grinning  masks  rep- 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  189 

resenting  the  actor's  face — a  gesture  signifying 
tears — and  the  audience  weeps  in  sympathy.  Such 
manufactured  pathos  leaves  the  Occidental,  unac- 
customed to  the  convention,  totally  unmoved.  In 
Japanese  comedy,  no  masks  are  worn,  thereby  im- 
parting far  more  mobility  and  verisimilitude  to 
the  representation ;  but  the  conventions  of  arti- 
ficially pitched  voice  and  mechanically  prescribed 
movements  and  gesture  prevail. 

In  language,  the  thrust  toward  realism  is  pe- 
culiarly the  attribute  of  the  contemporary  drama. 
Congreve  gave  increased  naturalness  to  his  char- 
acters through  the  highly  elastic  prose  which  they 
employed ;  but  they  "  talked  like  a  book,"  never- 
theless, in  supple,  undulant,  literary  prose.  The 
convention  of  wit  in  the  Restoration  and  post- 
Restoration  comedies  assuredly  had  some  rea- 
sonable excuse  in  the  fact  that  wit  was  the  so- 
cial criterion  of  the  age ;  and  when  at  last  we  come 
to  Sheridan,  a  classic  wit  of  English  comedy,  we 
find  a  drama  in  which  wit  has  become  a  pure  con- 
vention. Out  of  the  mouths  of  maid-servants, 
valets,  low  fellows  of  the  baser  sort,  fall  epigrams 
and  witticisms,  every  whit  as  brilliant  as  those  of 
their  masters.  In  the  contemporary  era,  Oscar 
Wilde  wrote  a  prose  of  incomparable  style,  beauty, 
and  distinction ;  but  so  pervasive  was  his  brilliance 
that  there  is,  in  his  dramas,  a  faulty  sense  for 
characterization.    Many  of  the  best  things  said  by 


190  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

his  characters  are  extrinsic,  not  germane  to  the  ac- 
tion, and  so  perfectly  interchangeable  among 
themselves.  To  the  true  realist,  there  must  be  a 
virtual  elimination  of  personal  pyrotechnics  or  in- 
dividual commentary — what  the  French  describe 
as  mots  d'auteur.  Countless  speeches  in  Wilde's 
plays  can  be  bodily  removed  without  affecting  the 
situation.  I  challenge  any  one  to  go  over  Ibsen's 
plays  of  modern  life  and  delete  anything — save 
connectives,  exclamations,  and  interjections. 

The  case  for  the  modern  dramatic  realist  is  ad- 
mirably put  by  Ibsen  in  regard  to  Emperor  and 
Galilean  in  his  historic  letter  to  Edmund  Gosse, 
January  15,  1874:  "You  are  of  the  opinion  that 
the  drama  ought  to  have  been  written  in  verse,  and 
that  it  would  have  gained  by  this.  Here  I  must 
differ  from  you.  The  play  is,  as  you  must  have 
observed,  conceived  in  the  most  realistic  style ;  the 
illusion  I  wished  to  produce  was  that  of  reality. 
I  wished  to  produce  the  impression  on  the  reader 
that  what  he  was  reading  was  something  that  had 
really  happened.  If  I  had  employed  verse,  I 
should  have  counteracted  my  own  intention  and 
prevented  the  accomplishment  of  the  task  I  had 
set  myself.  The  many  ordinary,  insignificant 
characters  whom  I  have  intentionally  introduced 
in  the  play  would  have  been  indistinct  and  indis- 
tinguishable from  one  another,  if  I  had  allowed 
them  to  speak  in  one   and  the  same  rhythmical 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  191 

measure.  We  are  no  longer  living  in  the  days  of 
Shakespeare.  Among  sculptors  there  is  already 
talk  of  painting  statues  in  the  natural  colors.  I 
have  no  desire  to  see  the  Venus  of  Milo  painted, 
but  I  would  rather  see  the  head  of  a  negro  executed 
in  black  than  in  white  marble.  Speaking  gener- 
ally, the  style  must  conform  to  the  degree  of  ideal- 
ity which  pervades  the  representation.  My  new 
drama  is  no  tragedy  in  the  ancient  acceptation; 
what  I  desired  to  depict  were  human  beings,  and 
therefore  I  would  not  let  them  talk  the  '  language 
of  the  Gods.'  " 

In  this  paragraph  is  a  passage  which  may  be 
accepted  as  the  formula  of  the  modern  dramatic 
realist :  "  the  style  must  conform  to  the  degree  of 
ideality  which  pervades  the  representation^'^  If 
the  drama  is  purely  idealistic,  the  medium  may 
very  properly  be  rhymed  verse ;  if  only  partially 
idealistic,  with  strongly  realistic  touches,  the 
medium  may  be  blank  verse,  in  a  combination  of 
rhymed  verse  or  blank  verse,  and  prose ;  if,  how- 
ever, the  drama  is  purely  realistic,  the  language 
can  only  be  prose,  approximating  to  the  spoken 
language  of  actual  life.  Of  all  the  conventions  of 
the  drama,  as  modified  by  modern  practice,  that  of 
dialogue  exhibits  the  most  remarkable  alteration 
due  to  realistic  theory  and  intention.  Into  his 
dramas  of  modem  life,  Ibsen  put  only  that  which 
he  himself  had  lived  through;  and  as  a  conse- 


192  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

quence  he  could  only  express  it  in  the  most  natural, 
comprehensible  modern  speech.  After  1875,  he 
confessed  that  he  "  exclusively  cultivated  the  very 
much  more  difficult  art  of  writing  the  genuine 
plain  language  spoken  in  real  life."  He  was  that 
"  bold  trampling  fellow  "  of  whom  Beddoes  speaks 
— who  preferred  "  to  beget  than  to  revive."  The 
full-fledged  expression  of  Ibsen's  views,  representa- 
tive of  modern  practice,  is  found  in  his  letter  to 
Lucie  Wolf,  May  25,  1883:— "Verse  has  been 
most  injurious  to  dramatic  art.  A  scenic  artist 
whose  department  is  the  drama  of  the  present  day 
should  be  unwilling  to  take  a  verse  in  his  mouth. 
It  is  improbable  that  verse  will  be  employed  to 
any  extent  worth  mentioning  in  the  drama  of  the 
immediate  future ;  the  aims  of  the  dramatists  of 
the  future  are  almost  certain  to  be  incompatible 
with  it.  It  is  therefore  doomed.  For  art  forms 
become  extinct,  just  as  the  preposterous  animals 
of  prehistoric  times  when  their  day  was  over." 

Delightful  comparisons  might  be  instituted  be- 
tween the  language  employed  in  similar  situations, 
in  both  comedy  and  tragedy,  and  at  different 
periods  in  the  drama's  history.  The  chaff  of 
poetic,  declamatory,  rhetorical,  theatrical  effects 
has  in  large  measure  been  eliminated,  by  the  fine- 
meshed  sieve  of  realism,  from  the  better  drama  of 
to-day.  The  hackneyed,  the  stereotyped,  the  con- 
ventional no  longer  have  any  standing.     Modern 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  193 

dramatic  prose  must  not  only  convey  the  impres- 
sion of  actuality :  it  must  be  terse,  crisp,  expres- 
sive, undulating.  Dialogue  is  the  feature  of  the 
contemporary  drama  in  which  realism  is  at  a  maxi- 
mum, convention  at  a  minimum.  Contemporary 
dramatic  dialogue  of  the  higher  type,  as  found  in 
Ibsen  or  Hauptmann,  for  example,  may  be  said 
to  be  "  stylicized,"  in  one  respect  only :  the  char- 
acters enunicate  no  conviction  that  is  not  essential, 
that  is  not  actually  indispensable,  as  a  means  for 
the  elucidation  of  character.  The  haphazard,  the 
aimless,  in  dialogue  is  ruthlessly  discarded.  The  ^ 
test  in  Ibsen's  case  is  quickly  made:  try  to  omit 
any  passage  or  paragraph,  and  you  will  immedi- 
ately discover  that  you  have  thereby  lopped 
away  an  organic  part  of  the  dramatic  structure. 
Such  a  method  as  that  of  Ibsen  demands  of  the 
contemporary  spectator  the  most  concentrated  at- 
tention. The  auditor  cannot  afford  to  miss  any- 
thing— since  everything  is  underscored. 

It  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  convention  that 
contemporary  dramatic  dialogue  must  be  conver- 
gent in  its  effect,  pointing  always  toward  the  rev- 
elation of  the  characters  or  the  explication  of  the 
situation.  It  is  a  convention  reduced  to  the  van- 
ishing point  that  contemporary  dramatic  dialogue 
must  not  be  an  exact  replica  of  the  halting,  ex- 
clamatory, repetitive,  discursive  speech  of  every- 
day life.     The  physical  conditions  of  representa- 


194s  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

tion  compel  both  economy  of  attention  and  econ- 
omy of  means ;  and  as  already  pointed  out,  certain 
conventions  in  the  theater  are  accepted  as  more 
real,  more  valid  for  the  medium  employed,  than 
a  minutely  perfect  reproduction  of  reality.  The 
realistic  reproduction  of  all  conversations  in  full 
is  inconceivable  in  a  novel,  even  in  a  Jean-Chris- 
tophe.  It  is,  if  anything,  even  more  inconceivable 
in  the  drama,  especially  the  modem  drama  of 
compression  and  culmination.  If  it  were  possible 
to  create  a  perfectly  realistic  drama,  it  would  re- 
quire very  much  more  than  the  "  two  hours  traffick 
of  the  stage." 

The  indispensable  esthetic  principle  governing 
the  writing  of  modern  dramatic  dialogue  has  pro- 
duced one  significant  consequence,  in  that  it  has 
made  such  dialogue  exceedingly  difficult  to  achieve 
successfully.  It  must  not  be  merely  literary  or 
poetic ;  it  cannot  afford  to  be  long-winded 
or  irrelevant;  it  dare  not  be  monotonous  or 
merely  businesslike.  Its  prerequisite  is  this :  it 
must  be  always  and  everywhere  germane  to  the 
action,  attuned  to  the  prevalent  mood  of  the  piece, 
and  vocal  of  the  emotional  life,  thought,  passion, 
and  sensibility  of  the  characters.  Only  a  genius 
could  speak  the  dialogue  of  a  play  of  Oscar 
Wilde's — this  is  the  weakness  of  an  antiquated 
conception  of  the  drama.  The  average  man  or 
woman,  living  a  tense  life  within  specified  intervals, 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  195 

might  conceivably  employ  the  dialogue  of  the 
modern  realist,  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Brieux.  It  must 
be  granted  that  convention  is  there,  none  the  less ; 
for  no  race  of  people,  at  all  times,  ever  spoke  the 
dialogue  of  Ibsen,  perfection  of  condensation,  ap- 
positeness  and  brevity,  or  the  dialogue  of  Shaw, 
for  example,  with  its  Hotchkiss  rapid-fire  of  bril- 
liant epigram,  cogent  argument,  and  driving  dia- 
lectic. 

A  study  of  Ibsen's  preliminary  drafts  for  his 
plays  has  fully  convinced  me  of  the  scientifically 
experimental  side  of  his  genius.  He  set  the  stand- 
ard— this  was  the  supremely  difficult  task  of  the 
pioneer  and  the  genius.  It  was  inevitable,  once 
realism  in  dramatic  art  was  established,  that  many 
of  the  artificial  conventions  of  the  past  should  ulti- 
mately be  rejected  by  a  generation  which  made 
naturalness  the  watchword  and  slogan  of  its  art. 
Ibsen  was  noteworthy  in  escaping  the  obsession  of 
the  naturalism  of  sensation.  Just  as  Turgenev, 
in  protest  against  the  physiological  mania  of  Zola, 
avowed  that  he  cared  not  whether  a  woman 
sweated  under  her  arms  or  in  the  small  of  her  back, 
so  Ibsen  expressed  in  his  own  work  the  most  re- 
fined spirit  of  modern  realism.  For  the  physiolog- 
ical vulgarities  of  naturalism  he  substituted  the 
psychological  fitness  of  realism.  Contrary  to  the 
view  of  the  Frenchman,  who  said  that  language 
was    invented    for    the    purpose    of    concealing 


196  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

thought,  Ibsen's  doctrine  was  that  the  object  of 
dramatic  language  was  to  reveal  character, 
thought,  emotion — and  with  the  utmost  economy 
of  means.  No  long  speeches,  no  redundancy,  no 
senseless  multiplication  of  ideas  that  may  be  dis- 
pensed with.  He  used  a  word,  a  mere  exclamation, 
a  breath — if  thereby  he  could  reveal  the  psycho- 
logical processes  within  the  mind  of  the  character. 
The  modern  dramatist  has  taught  the  modern  au- 
ditor the  trick  of  his  method.  To-day,  the  modern 
auditor  demands  the  consideration  due  to  one  in- 
telligently trained  in  the  nnplicative  suggestive- 
ness,  the  psychological  subtlety  of  contemporary 
dramatic  prose. 

Nothing  to-day  so  conspicuously  reveals  the  in- 
•  expert  craftsman  as  the  employment  of  the  artifi- 
cial devices  which  characterized  the  "  well-made 
piece  "  of  Scribe  and  the  French  school.  Sardou's 
A  Scrap  of  Paper  is  the  last  word  of  mechanical 
dexterity  in  craftsmanship.  Nowadays  the  acci- 
dental, the  adventitious,  the  psychologically  im- 
probable are  rigorously  excluded  by  the  best 
modern  craftsmen.  The  intelligent  modern  spec- 
tator cannot  be  imposed  upon  by  the  arbitrary  or 
the  coincidental  happening.  The  happenings  of 
the  play,  whether  they  are  events  in  the  ordinary 
physical  sense  or  psychological  changes  in  the 
characters  themselves,  must  be  inevitable  conse- 
quences of  the  given  circumstances  and  the  given 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  197 

personalities  in  those  circumstances.  An  admir- 
able example  of  such  treatment  is  Mr.  Eugene 
Walter's  The  Easiest  Way,  rigorous  in  its  logic 
and  mercilessly  sincere  in  its  handling  of  a  hack- 
neyed theme.  This  modem  realistic  tendency 
ordinarily  expresses  itself  in  the  abandonment 
of  the  "  curtain " — the  theatrical  -finale.  For 
to  the  modern  realist  a  drama  is  no  longer 
conceived  as  a  succession  of  theatrical  "  sit- 
uations " ;  it  is  a  more  or  less  accurate  transcript 
of  life,  modified  in  accordance  with  the  selective 
and  interpretive  genius  of  the  dramatist.  The 
contemporary  craftsman  seeks  to  convey  a  sense 
of  the  normality  and  continuity  of  life ;  the  scenes 
have  no  end  in  the  sense  of  a  finale.  Even  the 
drama  itself  is  not  designed  to  create  a  sense  of 
finality ;  the  end  of  many  a  modern  play  leaves  the 
spectator  with  a  sense  of  life  still  going  on  after 
the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

A  notable  consequence  of  the  modern  realistic 
attitude  toward  dramatic  art  is  found  in  the  aus- 
tere rigor  of  the  contemporary  dramatist  in  re- 
gard to  that  most  ancient  of  dramatic  conventions, 
the  soliloquy.  The  word  itself,  soliloquium,  was 
coined  by  St.  Augustine ;  and  the  root  idea,  speak- 
ing alone,  has  been  preserved  in  the  English  word. 
There  are  many  different  variations  and  offshoots 
of  the  soliloquy ;  but  in  general  it  is  true  that 
soliloquies   are  always  of  two   species.     There  is 


198  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  verbal  soliloquy,  in  which  the  speaker  is  talking 
to  himself,  i.e.  speaking  aloud;  and  there  is  the 
mental  soliloquy  in  which  the  speaker  is  voicing 
his  inmost  thoughts,  that  is,  thinking  aloud.  There 
is  the  familiar  device  of  the  dialogic  "  aside,"  from 
which  must  be  distinguished  the  monologue  known 
as  the  "  apart."  The  speaker  of  the  soliloquy  im- 
agines himself  alone,  assumes  himself  alone,  or 
temporarily  forgets  that  he  is  not  alone ;  whereas 
the  speaker  of  the  "  apart  "  never  even  temporarily 
forgets  the  proximity  of  others.  Soliloquies  are 
usually  employed  as  technical  devices  of  the  author 
for  one  or  the  other  of  two  purposes — either  as  ex- 
position monologues  for  the  purpose  of  conveying 
to  the  audience  in  soliloquy  facts  needful  for  the 
understanding  of  the  plot  on  the  part  of  the  au- 
dience, or  as  devices  for  exhibiting  the  designs  of 
the  dramatist,  serving  the  purpose  of  self-char- 
acterization. 

Throughout  dramatic  history  the  soliloquy  is 
a  conspicuous  technical  device  of  the  dramatic 
craftsman.  In  the  Greek  dramas  of  ^'schylus, 
Sophocles,  and  Euripides,  pure  soliloquys  are  com- 
paratively infrequent,  owing  to  the  presence  of 
the  chorus ;  whilst  in  the  dramas  of  Seneca  the  ar- 
bitrary confidant  usually  silently  listens  to  the  out- 
pourings of  the  hero  or  heroine.  The  religious 
note  of  the  soliloquies  in  the  morality  plays,  with 
its  tendency  to  religious  introspection,  prepared 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  199 

the  way,  as  Arnold  in  his  study  of  the  solilo- 
quy as  found  in  Shakespeare  points  out,  for  the 
Hamlet  type  of  soliloquy  in  the  Sheakespearean 
drama.  In  the  hands  of  Shakespeare  and  Mar- 
lowe, the  soliloquy  reached  its  greatest  vogue, 
variety,  and  perfection,  revealing  wide  differentia- 
tion. It  is  only  during  the  contemporary  era  that 
we  observe  the  decline  and  virtual  disappearance 
of  the  soliloquy,  although  Moliere  in  his  greatest 
achievements  dispensed  with  this  useful  device. 

Centuries  ago  criticism  discovered  the  secret 
flaw  in  the  soliloquy,  and  condemned  it  as  an 
unnatural  device.  As  long  ago  as  1657,  the  Abbe 
d'Aubignac  in  his  Pratique  du  Theatre,  said: 
"  First  of  all,  an  actor  must  never  make  a  Mono- 
logue, which  he  addresses  to  the  Audience,  with  a 
design  to  inform  them  of  something  they  are  to 
know ;  but  there  must  be  found  out  something  in 
the  Truth  of  the  Action  that  may  be  colorable  to 
make  him  speak  in  that  manner."  D'Aubignac  thus 
accepts  adequate  motivation  as  a  sufficient  excuse 
for  the  narrative  soliloquy ;  whereas  Dryden,  writ- 
ing at  about  the  same  period  (Essay  of  Dramatic 
Poesy,  1665),  enters  a  strong  caveat  against  the 
speech  directed  to  the  audience  in  order  to  "  ac- 
quaint them  with  what  was  necessary  to  be  known, 
but  yet  should  have  been  so  contrived  by  the  poet 
as  to  have  been  told  by  persons  of  the  drama  to 
one  another."     A  century  later,  the  critics  have 


200  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

split  up  into  two  camps,  as  Cailhava  (De  Vart  de 
la  comcdie,  1786)  asserts,  some  wishing  to  banish 
utterly  soliloquies,  others  wishing  to  multiply 
them.  The  crucial  fact  to  be  noted  in  this  con- 
nection is  that  criticism,  however  hostile,  had  vir- 
tually no  effect  in  achieving  the  abolition  of  the 
soliloquy.  It  was  not  until  a  great  dramaturgic 
genius,  inspired  by  the  spirit  of  modern  realism, 
came  to  the  decision  that  the  soliloquy  violated  the 
fundamental  principle  of  naturalness,  a  necessity 
for  the  modern  temperament,  that  the  soliloquy 
received  its  death  blow.  It  was  not  the  critical 
iconoclast  but  the  practising  craftsman  who  ban- 
ished the  soliloquy  and  its  poor  relations  to  the 
limbo  of  outworn  and  faded  stage  properties. 

As  stage-manager,  Henrik  Ibsen  produced  many 
plays  of  the  French  school  of  Scribe,  which  left 
a  marked  influence  upon  his  earlier  dramas.  In  his 
own  Lady  Inger  of  Oestraat  (1885),  for  example, 
Ibsen  shows  himself  to  be  a  very  inexpert  crafts- 
man, much  too  frequently  employing  the  conven- 
ient devices  of  the  soliloquy  and  the  aside.  But 
intensive  study  of  production,  conducted  in  a  thor- 
ouglily  realistic  spirit,  soon  convinced  Ibsen  that 
conventions  which  to  a  former  age  seemed  indis- 
pensable to  the  drama  were,  after  all,  mere  fash- 
ions of  the  stage  or  makeshifts  of  the  inexpert 
craftsman.  When  Ibsen  began  to  depict  in  prose 
the  life  of  his  own  age,  his  incorruptible  sense  of 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  201 

veracity  led  him  to  reject  the  artifical  conventions 
employed  in  his  earlier,  technically  derivative 
plays.  The  League  of  Youth,  Ibsen's  first  play  in 
prose,  is  a  "  well-made  piece  "  in  five  acts  after  the 
familiar  Scribe  model.  Yet  it  has  historic  signifi- 
cance, in  that  Ibsen  here  first  prophesies  by  deed 
the  realistic  technic  of  the  contemporary  drama. 
In  a  letter  to  Georg  Brandes  (June  26,  1869), 
Ibsen  says  of  his  "  new  work  " :  "  It  is  written  in 
prose,  which  gives  it  a  strong  realistic  coloring. 
I  have  paid  particular  attention  to  form,  and 
among  other  things  I  have  accomplished  the  feat  of 
doing  without  a  single  monologue — in  fact,  with- 
out a  single  aside."  The  powerful  influence  of  his 
realistic  practice,  fortified  by  intense  conviction, 
effected  a  revolution  in  stage  technic  ;  and  fourteen 
years  later  we  find  him  writing  to  Lucie  Wolf: 
"  My  conviction,  and  my  art  principles  forbid  me 
(to  write  a  prologue  for  a  festival  performance  at 
the  Christiania  Theater,  June,  1883).  Prologues, 
epilogues,  and  everything  of  the  kind  ought  to  be 
banished  from  the  stage.  The  stage  is  for  dra- 
matic art  alone ;  and  declamation  is  not  dramatic 
art." 

There  is  a  certain  modern  school,  embracing 
students  of  the  stage  and  its  changing  me- 
chanical conditions,  who  study  the  drama  as 
a  branch  of  political  economy.  To  them,  suc- 
cessful   stage    production    is    the    final    test    of 


^02  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

dramatic  art — although  we  know,  nowadays, 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  "  the  public " 
but  innumerable  "  publics  " ;  and  in  consequence,  a 
disastrous  failure  in  London  may  be  a  popular 
success  in  New  York,  a  succes  d'estlme  in  Paris 
may  be  a  succes  de  furore  in  Vienna.  The  same 
play  produced  in  different  localities  in  the  same 
city,  and  with  identical  casts,  may  in  one  case  take 
and  hold  the  popular  fancy,  in  the  other  fail  to 
get  over  the  footlights.  The  exponents  of  the 
modern  mechanical  school  of  theater  criticism 
dogmatically  assert  the  predominant  influence  of 
the  playhouse  upon  the  drama,  minimizing 
to  the  vanishing  point  the  influence  of  the  creative 
artist.  At  the  risk  of  becoming  unintelligible, 
let  us  remember  that,  to  the  mathematician, 
one  variable  is  defined  to  be  a  "  function  "  of  an- 
other, if  a  certain  variation  in  one  is  accompanied 
by  a  simultaneous  variation  in  the  other.  Thus 
we  say  that  m  is  a  function  of  a?  [«-  =  /  C^)]*  I^ 
one  variable  is  a  function  of  several  others,  say 
three  variables,  this  is  expressed  by  saying 
that  M  is  a  function  of  x,  y,  z  [u^  f  {x,  y,  z)'\. 
The  mechanical  theater  critic  thinks  he  has 
exhausted  the  subject  when  he  aflirms  that  the 
drama  (m)  is  a  "  function"  of  the  three  variables 
— the  theater  (a?),  the  actors  {y),  and  the  audience 
(z).  The  dramatic  critic  here  loses  sight  of  the 
fundamental  mathematical  truth  that  if  2/  is   a 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  203 

function  of  x  [y  =  f  {x)],  then  it  is  reciprocally 
true  that  a:  is  a  function  oi  y  [a;  =  F  («/)]•  Not 
only  is  the  drama  a  function  of  the  theater,  the 
actors,  and  the  audience.  These,  in  their  turn,  in 
a  certain  perfectly  specific  sense,  are  themselves 
functions  of  the  drama.  The  theater,  the  actor, 
the  audience — each  is  a  function  of  the  drama. 
This,  I  take  it,  is  the  real  meaning  of  the  modern 
revolution  in  the  art  of  the  theater  and  the  archi- 
tectural reconstruction  of  the  playhouse. 

The  dramatic  critic  is  guilty  of  another  cardi- 
nal oversight  in  attributing  to  the  physical 
and  mechanical  intermediaries  for  the  production 
of  the  drama,  for  the  most  part  passive  and  plas- 
tic, an  influence  in  importance  and  result  equal  to 
that  of  the  creative  artist  himself.  The  confusion 
and  fallacy  now  regnant  in  contemporary  dramatic 
criticism  will  continue  to  prevail  until  it  is  frankly 
recognized :  first,  that  the  drama  is  not  a  "  func- 
tion "  of  the  creative  artist,  but  is  the  artist  him- 
self, in  the  same  sense  as  le  style  c'est  Vhomme ; 
and  second,  that  the  drama  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  theater,  public,  and  actors  on  the  other, 
are  reciprocal  influences.  The  mechanical  trade  of 
building  may  exert  a  certain  normalizing  influence 
upon  dramatic  technic ;  but  the  creative  art  of  the 
dramatist  actually  does  exert,  and  in  the  future 
will  increasingly  exert,  a  predominant  and  con- 
structive influence  upon  the  playhouse,  its  shape. 


204,  THE  CHANGING  DRAIMA 

structure,  scenery,  curtains,  lighting,  and  an  in- 
finity of  subsidiary  questions.  The  contemporary 
movement  has  created  an  entirely  new  art  of  which 
the  mechanical  school  of  theater  critics,  oddly 
enough,  seem  miraculously  ignorant.  Craig,  Rein- 
hardt,  Stanislavsky,  Barker,  Falk,  D'Annunzio, 
Piatt  manipulate  the  theater  and  its  devices  as  the 
great  painter  manipulates  his  colors.  The  very 
form  and  structure  of  the  playhouse  is  beginning 
to  undergo  radical  modification — in  Munich,  in 
Warsaw,  in  Berlin,  in  Buda-Pesth.  The  new  tech- 
nician in  the  tlieater,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
mechanical  theater  critic,  realizes  that  the  theater 
was  made  for  the  dramatist,  and  not  that  the 
dramatist  was  made  for  the  theater.  Far  from 
conceding  that  the  theater  determines  the  form 
of  the  drama,  the  modern  artist,  thoroughly  revo- 
lutionary in  spirit,  is  prepared  to  alter  the 
structural  proportions  of  the  playhouse  at  will 
in  conformity  with  the  new  conditions  imposed  on 
the  theater  by  the  creative  craftsman,  or  to 
abandon  the  theater  entirely  and  go  out  into  the 
open  air. 

From  a  study  of  the  history  of  the  drama,  it 
is  clear  that  neither  criticism  unsupported  by  the 
example  of  successful  practice,  nor  great  example 
unsupported  by  the  wide  prevalence  of  certain 
esthetic  principles,  sufficed  to  abolish  the  soliloquy. 
Otherwise,  it  would  have  been  abolished  in  France 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  205 

by  Moliere,  in  England  by  Dryden.  If  the  form 
of  the  drama  was  conditioned  by  the  physical  ex- 
igencies of  the  theater,  why  did  Moliere  on  the  ten- 
nis-court stage  dispense  with  the  soliloquy  in  the 
Critique,  the  Impromptu  and  the  Comtesse  d'Es- 
carhagnas;  or  Corneille  in  the  Pompce,  La  suite 
du,  menteur,  Theodore  and  Pertharite?  If  the  ban- 
ishment of  the  soliloquy  is  "  an  inevitable  conse- 
quence of  the  incandescent  bulb,"  why  is  it  that 
we  find  a  long  narrative  monologue  in  Pinero's 
Magistrate  (1885),  for  example,  an  elaborate  solil- 
oquy in  Wilde's  Ladt/  Windermere^s  Fan,  innu- 
merable instances  of  soliloquies  and  asides  in  early 
works  of  both  Pinero  and  Jones?  It  was,  demon- 
strably, not  until  these  men  came  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Ibsen's  realistic  technic  (not,  assuredly, 
as  an  "  inevitable  consequence  of  the  incandescent 
bulb"!)  that  they  banished  the  soliloquy — al- 
though all  their  plays  were  written  for  and  pro- 
duced on  the  picture-frame  stage  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Why  do  the  soliloquy,  the  aside,  and  the 
apart  still  survive  to-day  in  the  melodrama  and 
the  farce,  produced  on  this  magic  picture-frame 
stage  ? 

To-day,  nothing  so  shocks  a  sensitive  critic — 
or  indeed,  a  self-respecting  audience — as  to  have  to 
endure  a  play  which  opens  by  the  descent  of  two 
persons  to  the  footlights  to  carry  on  an  exposi- 
tory conversation  beginning :  "  It  is  now  twenty-five 


206  THE  CHANGING  DRAIVIA 

years  since,  etc."  I  can  still  summon  the  feeling 
of  profound  disgust  with  which,  as  a  boy  of  eight, 
I  witnessed  the  opening  scene  of  a  dramatization 
of  Rider  Haggard's  She:  two  men  sitting  on  a  log 
for  half  an  hour  while  they  related  half  the  story 
of  the  novel  to  put  the  audience  en  rapport  with 
the  situation.  Equally  unendurable  to  a  modern 
audience,  enjoying  a  highly  cultivated  realistic 
sense  as  a  consequence  of  the  revolutionary  prac- 
tice of  Ibsen  and  the  realistic  spirit  animating 
modern  literature,  is  the  device  of  the  soliloquy  or 
the  monologue,  serving  as  a  first  aid  to  ignorant  au- 
diences. A  technical  tour  de  force,  to  be  sure, 
is  Strindberg's  The  Stronger,  a  dramatic  mono- 
logue addressed  by  one  character  to  another, 
who  remains  silent  though  emotionally  expressive 
throughout.  The  expository  monologue  here  is 
the  action,  is  the  drama.  Soliloquies  are  unreal — 
it  is  one  of  the  conventions  which  the  dramatist 
has  succeeded  in  discarding.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
people  sometimes — and  not  infrequently — do  give 
audible  expression  to  their  thoughts  and  feelings 
when  they  are,  or  fancy  themselves,  alone.  But 
the  soliloquy  of  a  sane  man  in  actual  life  is  ex- 
ceedingly brief — a  few  words,  or,  at  most,  a  few 
broken  phrases.  Such  a  soliloquy  is  allowable  to- 
day, in  comedy  and  even  in  the  serious  drama,  since 
it  is  in  perfect  conformity  with  actual  life.  In 
the  dramas  of  Ibsen  we  have  happy  illustrations 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  207 

of  this  type  of  brief  soliloquy — notably  the  five 
"  link  "  speeches  in  The  Pillars  of  Society  (1877), 
the  three  brief  soliloquies  at  the  ends  of  the  first 
and  last  acts  of  A  DolVs  House  (1879),  and  the 
"  Erhart !  At  Last !  ",  the  whispered  words  of  Mrs. 
Borkman  at  the  sound  of  the  door-bell,  opening 
the  first  act  of  John  Gabriel  Borkman  (1896). 
According  to  the  canons  of  to-day,  the  soliloquy 
is  overdone  in  A  DolVs  House:  Mrs.  Linden's 
soliloquy  at  the  opening  of  the  third  act  is  just 
barely  permissible;  but  Nora's  soliloquy  at  the 
opening  of  the  second  act  is  entirely  indefensible — 
a  survival  of  the  artificial  technic  of  Scribe  and  the 
French  School.  The  soul  struggles  of  the  char- 
acters, the  tumult  of  their  inner  emotions,  are  ex- 
pressed most  eloquently  in  the  treatment  given 
them  by  Ibsen  in  Hedda  Gabler  (1890)  and  The 
Master  Builder  (1892).  More  eloquent  than  ex- 
plicit dialogue  is  the  enigmatic  finale  of  the  second 
act  of  The  Master  Builder: 

Hilda.  (Looks  straight  in  front  of  her  with 
a  far-away  expression,  and  whispers  to  herself. 
The  only  words  audible  are)  .  .  .  frightfully 
thrilling.     .     .     . 

In  Hedda  Gabler,  the  ungovernable  rage  of 
Hedda  over  the  exasperating  tactlessness  of  Aunt 
Julia  is  expressed  entirely  in  gesture :  "  Hedda 
walks  about  the  room;  raising  her  arms  and  clench" 


208  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ing  her  hands  as  if  in  desperation.  .  .  ."  Surely 
no  soliloquy  in  any  contemporary  drama  is  so  hor- 
rifying in  its  effect,  so  evocative  of  the  true  dra- 
matic pity  and  terror,  as  that  at  the  close  of  the 
third  act  of  the  same  play : 

Hedda.  (Throws  one  of  the  quires  into  the 
fire  and  whispers  to  herself.)  Now  I  am  burning 
your  child.  Thea !  .  .  .  Burning  it,  curly-locks ! 
(Throwing  one  or  two  more  quires  into  the  stove.) 
Your  child  and  Eilert  Lovborg's.  (Throws  the 
rest  in.)  I  am  burning — I  am  burning  your  child. 

An  unusually  effective  use  of  the  soliloquy,  in 
comedy,  is  the  somnambulistic  mental  wandering 
of  Bluntschli  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  of  Shaw's 
Arms  and  the  Man  (1894).  In  the  Preface  to 
Miss  Julia,  Strindberg,  essentially  an  experi- 
mental craftsman,  has  made  a  very  interesting 
suggestion  in  regard  to  the  monologue: 

"  Our  realists  have  excommunicated  the  mono- 
logue as  improbable ;  but  if  I  can  lay  a  proper 
basis  for  it,  I  can  also  make  it  seem  probable,  and 
then  I  can  use  it  to  good  advantage.  It  is  proba- 
ble, for  instance,  that  a  speaker  may  walk  back 
and  forth  in  his  room  practising  his  speech  aloud ; 
it  is  probable  that  an  actor  may  read  through  his 
part  aloud,  that  a  servant-girl  may  talk  to  her  cat, 
that  a  mother  may  prattle  to  her  child,  that  an  old 
spinster  may  chatter  to  her  parrot,  that  a  person 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  209 

may  talk  in  his  sleep.  And  in  order  that  the  actor 
for  once  may  have  a  chance  to  work  independently, 
and  to  be  free  for  a  moment  from  the  actor's 
pointer,  it  is  better  that  the  monologues  be  not 
written  out,  but  just  indicated." 

This  bold  suggestion  of  a  return  to  the  methods 
of  the  Italian  Comedia  delV  arte  finds  realization 
upon  certain  stages  in  Italy  to-day.  Thus  far, 
however,  this  "  new  art  form  that  might  well  be 
called  productive,"  the  art  of  improvisation,  has 
not  yet  won  its  way  into  general  recognition  and 
adoption. 

Dramatic  craftsmanship  has  to-day  reached  a 
point  of  such  complex  excellence  that  the  best 
dramatists  refuse  to  employ  such  an  unworthy  de- 
vice as  the  lengthy  soliloquy;  first,  because  it  is 
fundamentally  untrue  to  actual  life;  second,  be- 
cause it  seeks  to  give  information  which  may  be 
more  veraciously  imparted  in  more  natural  ways ; 
third,  because  new  technical  virtuosity  has  in- 
vented newer  and  more  natural  methods  of  ex- 
position, thereby  making  possible  the  total  aban- 
donment of  the  lengthy  soliloquy.  Indeed,  in  an 
age  marked  as  much  by  unparalleled  communi- 
cativeness as  by  chronic  introspection,  the  device 
of  the  soliloquy  is  superfluous.  In  the  forthright 
dramas  of  to-day — from  the  farces  of  W.  S.  Gil- 
bert and  the  comedies  of  Shaw  to  the  tragi-come- 
dies  of  Wedekind  and  the  serious  dramas  of  Ibsen 


^10  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

— the  characters  speak  out  in  the  presence  of 
others  with  such  revolutionary  frankness,  such 
fathomless  naivete,  that  the  harboring  of  secret 
thoughts  seems  almost  to  have  disappeared  in  the 
economy  of  contemporary  civilization.  The  solil- 
oquy, save  of  very  brief  length  and  in  exceptional 
cases,  is  no  longer  needed  by  the  "  advanced  " 
individual  who  prefers  to  tell  everybody  every- 
thing ! 

The  aside,  a  minor  form  of  soliloquy,  is  now 
forever  relegated  to  the  limbo  of  threadbare  stage 
properties.  It  is  a  petty,  bastard  form  of  the 
soliloquy,  serving  either  the  serious  purpose  of 
discovering  the  intent  of  the  character  or  the 
comic  purpose  of  betraying  his  naivete  or  sense  of 
humor.  The  "  stage  whisper  "  is  as  universal  a 
mark  of  derision  as  the  mother-in-law  joke  or  the 
Burgessic  bromide — for  no  other  reason  than  that 
it  is  absurdly  unnatural,  a  contradiction  in  terms ; 
and  still  survives  merely  as  a  sort  of  "  dead  give- 
away " — principally  for  comic  effect.  The  aside 
still  survives  in  the  musical  comedy,  the  farce,  the 
melodrama,  and  even  in  light  operas  such  as  those 
of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan.  But  the  aside  is  con- 
demned by  the  modern  realist,  who  makes  his  char- 
acters utter  aloud  the  daring  iconoclasms,  the  mor- 
dant ironies,  the  solemn  profundities  they  would 
once  have  uttered  sotto  voce.  The  device  known 
as  the  apart  is  less  crude  than  the  aside ;  in  mo- 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  211 

ments  of  great  tension  people  undoubtedly  some- 
times ejaculate  or  mutter,  so  as  to  be  heard  by 
those  present,  words  indicative  of  their  secret 
thoughts,  momentarily  uppermost  in  their  minds. 
An  effective  modern  use  of  the  apart  is  the  sotto 
voce  exclamation  of  Christine  at  the  close  of 
Schnitzler's  Liebelei.  Christine's  lover  has  been 
killed  in  a  duel,  fought  because  of  another  woman. 
When  the  news  reaches  her  that  her  lover,  whom 
she  has  last  seen  alive  and  well,  is  dead  and  actu- 
ally buried,  she  wildly  prays  to  be  taken  to  his 
grave.  All  attempt  to  dissuade  her — finally  suc- 
ceeding only  by  the  cruel  suggestion :  "  perhaps 
you'll  find  the  other  one  there — praying." 

Christine.  {To  herself,  her  eyes  fixed.)  I 
won't  pray  there.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  (She  rushes 
out;  the  others  speechless  for  the  moment.) 

The  technic  of  Pinero,  for  all  its  vaunted 
smoothness  and  finish,  is  antiquated  in  its  too  con- 
stant resort  to  such  devices  as  the  aside  and  the 
apart — as  compared  with  the  almost  austere  nat- 
uralness of  Ibsen.  "  The  people  of  Sir  Arthur  Pi- 
nero," as  Howe  pertinently  observes,  "  have  a  little 
scale  of  factitious  inaudibility  up  and  down  which 
they  run:  Thinking,  To  himself.  Half  to  himself. 
To  herself  in  a  whisper.  To  herself  in  a  low  voice. 
In  an  undertone.  Under  her  breath  as  he  passes 
on,  In  her  ear,  and  so  on." 


212  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Allied  to  the  device  of  the  soliloquy  is  that  of 
the  confidant,  who  for  long  has  been  wont  to  share 
the  secrets  of  the  protagonist.  Instead  of  speak- 
ing solely  to  himself — or  to  the  audience,  if  the 
allusion  be  wholly  shattered, — the  protagonist 
in  this  case  confides  his  woes  to  a  sympathetic 
listener.  Frequently  the  confidant  not  only  draws 
out  the  protagonist,  but  also  grows  quite  com- 
municative "  off  his  own  bat,"  thus  materially 
furthering  the  action  of  the  piece.  By  means  of 
the  confidant,  as  well  as  by  means  of  the  soliloquy, 
the  audience  is  informed  of  many  facts  needful  for 
a  comprehension  of  the  situation.  As  Sardou  has 
confessed,  the  dramatist  often  finds  himself  con- 
trolled by  the  conditions  of  the  situation  which 
he  projects;  his  only  mode  of  escape  is  to  have 
part  of  the  plot,  certain  intervening  links  in  the 
story,  inserted  through  the  intermediaries  of  con- 
fidences and  personal  confessions.  The  undis- 
guised confidant,  in  the  crudest  form,  is  banished 
from  the  modern  stage,  because  it  is  a  spurious, 
and  oftentimes  unnatural  means  of  furthering  the 
action  of  the  piece.  But  it  is  quite  unreasonable 
to  suppose  that  the  confidant,  naturally  intro- 
duced and  realistically  portrayed,  will  ever  dis- 
appear from  the  stage. 

A  play  presumably  connotes  a  hero,  a  heroine 
(either  or  both),  a  villain,  and  a  confidant.  We 
shall   see,   later   on,   how   the   hero,   through   the 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  213 

presence  of  democracy  re-enforced  by  modern 
feminism,  has  shown  a  steady  degenerescence  dur- 
ing the  modern  period.  The  "  hero "  as  type 
began  to  exhibit  a  "  spontaneous  tendency  to 
variation,"  as  the  result  of  bourgeois  tendencies 
in  civilization.  Along  another  avenue,  centuries 
earlier,  the  hero  as  type,  through  a  "  process  of 
selective  breeding,"  tended  toward  identification 
with  the  villain  as  type.  The  classic  illustration 
is  the  Richard  III  of  Shakespeare.  In  scientific 
terminology,  the  "  villain  "  is  the  most  remarkable 
"  mutant "  in  the  history  of  literature,  as  ex- 
hibiting the  widest  departure  from  the  parent 
form  of  hero.  If  the  naturally  good  man  becomes 
the  naturally  bad  man,  and  the  tragic  guilt  be- 
comes hardy  crime,  then  the  "  hero  "  becomes  the 
"  villain."  Under  the  pitiless  searchlight  of  mod- 
ern realistic  criticism,  the  "  stage  villain,"  as  type, 
has  dropped  out  of  sight.  His  light  flickered, 
failed,  and  finally  went  out  with  Krogstad  in  A 
Doll's  House.  The  confidant,  as  type,  is  subject 
to  only  superficial  variations — since  it  is  itself 
a  parent  form.  The  reason  for  this  is  simply 
that  art  here  approximates  to  life  with  marvelous 
exactitude:  for  in  life  the  confidant  is  a  fixed 
quantity.  Though  the  types,  as  stage  entities,  of 
"  hero  "  and  "  villain  "  tend  to  lose  their  most 
conspicuous  attributes,  and  the  undisguised 
"  confidant "  recedes  before  the  advance  of  real- 


214.  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

istic  criticism,  it  must  be  obvious,  on  the  score 
of  human  reality,  that  the  "  dominant  "  figures 
in  the  drama  will  always  be  the  protagonist,  the 
antagonist,  and  the  sympathetic  recipient  of  con- 
fidences. 

The  essential  meaning  of  the  contemporary 
drama  is  its  intimacy,  the  confidential  revela- 
tion of  motives,  thoughts,  and  feelings.  The 
confidential  friend  is  frequently  portrayed  by 
the  rigorous  craftsman — notably  Ibsen,  with  Mrs. 
Linden  in  A  DolVs  House,  Mrs.  Elvsted  in 
Hedda  Gahler,  and  Dr.  Herdal  in  The  Master 
Builder  as  the  most  conspicuous  examples.  Ber- 
nard Shaw,  who  has  vehemently  protested  against 
"  recklessness  in  the  substitution  of  dead  ma- 
chinery and  lay  figures  for  vital  action  and  real 
characters,"  employs  the  confidant,  more  or  less 
thinly  disguised,  in  several  of  his  plays — Praed  in 
Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,  McComas  in  You  Nex>er 
Can  Tell,  Cokane  in  Widowers'  Houses.  In  his 
Creditors,  Strindberg  builds  up  an  entire  play 
out  of  confidential  revelations,  a  quite  remarkable 
technical  achievement — Gustav,  the  diabolus  ex 
machina,  accomplishing  his  revenge  in  winning 
elaborate  confidences  from  husband  and  wife, 
Adolph  and  Tekla.  In  his  Liebelei,  Schnitzler 
makes  every  possible  use  of  the  confidant,  in  this 
case  bosom  friend  and  boon  companion,  who  plays 
every  role  from  that  of  procurer  and  second  in 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  215 

a  duel  to  the  mourner  who  performs  the  last  sad 
rites!  In  Pinero's  The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray, 
Cayley  Drummle  is  so  very  serviceable  as  to  excite 
smiles  over  the  broken  illusion  of  reality.  Cer- 
tainly it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  role  of 
confidential  friend  is  a  natural  role  played  by  al- 
most every  one  every  day  of  his  life.  Thousands 
of  men  and  women  in  the  world  are  peculiarly  fitted 
by  nature  to  play  the  part  of  confidant,  and  do 
actually  go  through  life  playing  nothing  else.  The 
confidential  friend  will  always  play  his  part  on  the 
stage — on  the  conditions  that  he  be  naturally  pre- 
sented, and  that  his  presence  be  not  extraneous  or 
adventitious,  but  integral  and  vital  to  the  psy- 
chological processes  of  the  action. 

Ibsen's  later  dramas  afford  a  peculiarly  instruc- 
tive illustration  of  his  technical  dexterity  in  ex- 
position, or  rather,  in  explication.  These  dramas 
are  frequently  reminiscent  in  tone ;  a  considerable 
part  of  the  explication  consists  in  the  narration  of 
events  which  have  transpired  in  the  past.  This  is 
an  inevitable  attribute  of  the  drama  of  recessive  ac- 
tion. Ibsen  early  learned  to  dispense  with  the  anti- 
quated scene  in  which  two  characters  baldly  tell 
each  other  things  which  the  auditor  needs  to  learn. 
In  certain  of  his  most  carefully  wrought-out  plays, 
characters  who  have  not  seen  each  other  for  a  long 
time  meet  again ;  and,  in  the  course  of  their  rem- 
iniscences which  arise  in  the  most  natural  fashion, 


216  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

many  antecedent  events  and  circumstances  are 
brought  to  light.  This  device  is  employed  again, 
and  again — in  The  Pillars  of  Society,  A  DolVs 
House,  Ghosts,  Rosmersholm,  The  Lady  from  the 
Sea,  Hedda  Gabler,  The  Master  Builder,  When 
We  Dead  Awaken.  This  technic,  remarkably  skil- 
ful as  it  is,  is  really  a  modern  substitution  for  the 
artificial  device  of  the  confidant.  It  is  only  an 
added  proof  of  Ibsen's  technical  virtuosity. 

In  the  Greek  drama,  the  chorus  served  as  inter- 
mediary between  author  and  audience,  conveying 
at  once  the  requisite  information  for  advancing 
the  action  and  the  author's  purport  and  designs. 
In  modem  times,  we  are  confronted  in  the  drama 
with  a  sort  of  individualized  Greek  chorus,  de- 
vised to  bridge  over  the  yawning  gap  between 
dramatist  and  public.  Such  a  figure  becomes 
classified  in  French  drama  as  the  raisonneur,  the 
expositor  and  interpreter  of  the  author's  inten- 
tion. In  another  light  we  may  look  upon  this 
figure  with  the  eyes  of  the  Germans,  and  classify 
him  as  the  ideal  spectator — a  reincarnation  of  the 
man  of  sound  esthetic  instincts,  himself  the  stand- 
ard and  final  arbiter  of  taste — of  Aristotle's 
Poetics  {6  xocpiei?).  In  the  plays  of  Dumas  fils, 
for  the  most  part  given  over  to  the  inculcation  of 
peculiarly  Gallic  doctrines  of  individual  and  so- 
cial morality,  the  raisonneur  is  well-nigh  indispen- 
sable for  giving  sharp  definition  of  the  author's 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  217 

thesis.  In  such  a  polemic  play  as  An  Enemy  of 
the  People  Ibsen  gives  strong  di'iving  force  to  his 
thesis  by  combining  in  the  person  of  Dr.  Stock- 
man the  roles  of  hero  and  social  exegete.  In  The 
Wild  Duck,  he  epitomizes  the  ironic  strain  of  the 
piece  in  the  person  of  the  unilluded  observer,  Dr. 
Relling.  In  both  Stockman  and  Relling,  be  it 
noted,  the  features  of  the  man,  Ibsen,  are  readily 
distinguishable.  In  such  a  contemporary  German 
drama  as  Sudermann's  Die  Ehre,  Count  Trast 
seems  little  more  than  a  personal  epitome  of  the 
author's  interpretation  of  the  title ;  in  Pinero's 
The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  Cayley  Drummle 
proves  doubly  useful — as  confidant  and  as 
genial  embodiment  of  social  criticism,  of  the 
world's  view-point ;  while  in  Shaw's  John  BulVs 
Other  Island,  Keegan  the  priest  is  the  indi- 
vidualized Greek  chorus  par  excellence.  In  the 
drama  of  ideas,  the  thesis-play,  in  which  the 
author  endeavors  to  generalize  about  life  from 
a  specific  case,  there  is  always  a  strong  pressure 
in  favor  of  a  character  who  will  serve  to  give  un- 
mistakably a  succinct  exposition  of  the  thesis. 
Hence  it  is  that  the  plays  of  such  dramatists  as 
Hervieu,  Brieux,  and  Shaw  have  a  schematic  cast, 
and  ordinarily  contain  some  character  or  even 
characters,  of  which  one  indispensable  character- 
istic is  to  justify  the  works  of  the  author  to  his 
public.     Such  characters  seem  to  be  mere  mouth- 


218  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

pieces  of  the  author,  and  so  exhibit  a  certain  me- 
chanical rigidity  literally  comic. 

Without  needlessly  multiplying  examples,  we 
may  conclude  that  dramatic  art  has  not  yet 
succeeded  in  dispensing  with  some  variant  form 
of  the  ancient  Greek  chorus,  call  it  by  what- 
soever name  you  will.  The  raisonneur,  though 
modem  in  appearance,  in  reality  is  only  the 
survival  of  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  conventions 
of  the  drama.  It  is  one  of  those  conventions, 
structurally  inherent  in  technical  chirography, 
by  which  the  dramatist  meets  the  audience 
half-way  in  the  task  of  interpretation.  As  the 
lyric  is  the  most  subjective,  the  drama  is  the  most 
objective  form  of  literary  art.  It  was  Victor 
Hugo  who  said  that  drama  is  the  art  of  being 
somebody  else ;  and  assuredly  the  successful  dram- 
atist must  never  merely  take  sides  in  a  dramatic 
wrangle  or  "  load  the  dice  "  against  characters 
holding  views  of  l^'fe  antagonistic  to  his  own. 
Every  character  must  have  his  say  without  let 
or  hinderance ;  and  the  dramatist  must  avoid  the 
attitude  of  the  partisan.  Galsworthy  is  a  con- 
spicuous contemporary  exemplar  of  the  dramatist 
of  complete  impartiality.  The  raisonneur  or  ex- 
positor survives  to-day,  less  as  replica  of  con- 
temporary humanity,  than  as  symbol  of  the  dram- 
atist's personal  struggle  to  obviate  the  extreme 
objectivity    of    drama.       The    thesis-drama,    the 


THE  NEW  TECHNIC  219 

drama  with  a  purpose,  is  importing  into  dramatic 
art,  as  practised  to-day,  a  new,  an  increased  sub- 
jectivity. Unsympathetic  critics  affirm  that  the 
plays  of  Shaw  and  Brieux  are  merely  ingenious 
excuses  of  Shaw  and  Brieux  for  giving  lectures 
on  social  morality.  In  an  age  marked  by  soci- 
ological speculation  and  persistent  moral  propa- 
gandism,  the  raisonneur  typifies  the  critical  cast, 
the  polemical  passion,  of  modern  thought. 


CHAPTER  Vin 
THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER 


"  The  human  mind  is  essentially  partial.  It  can  be 
efficient  at  all  only  by  picking  out  what  to  attend  to,  and 
ignoring  everything  else — by  narrowing  its  point  of  view. 
Otherwise,  what  little  strength  it  has  is  dispersed,  and  it 
loses  its  way  altogether." — William  James. 


As  recently  as  the  year  1906  Mr.  Henry  Arthur 
Jones  gave  testimony,  which  to-day  seems  almost 
incredible  in  view  of  the  remarkable  change  that 
has  come  about,  in  regard  to  the  practice  of  pub- 
lishing plays.  "  On  talking  over  the  matter  with 
a  leading  American  actor,"  he  said,  "  I  was  de- 
lighted to  find  him  at  one  with  me  in  desiring 
that  the  immediate  publication  and  circulation  of 
plays  may  become  an  established  custom  amongst 
us."  Ten  years  earlier,  according  to  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw,  it  was  virtually  impossible  to  secure  a  pub- 
lisher for  modern  plays.  The  answer  to  queries 
was  stereotyped :  "No  use ;  people  won't  read  plaj's 
in  England."  The  real  sufferer  in  the  case  was  not 
only  the  dramatist  of  the  advanced  type,  who, 
because  his  plays  were  not  commercially  adapted 
to  long  runs,  was  thus  deprived  of  all  means 
221 


222  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

of  reaching  the  public,  either  through  the  theater 
or  the  printed  play — save  at  a  personal  financial 
sacrifice ;  but  also  the  public,  both  readers  and 
theater-goers,  who  were  thus  effectively  shut  off 
from  the  dramatists,  or  would-be  dramatists,  be- 
cause of  an  economic  fact  doubtless  based  in  part 
upon   a  misconception. 

This  misconception  has  been  corrected  in  the 
main  by  three  forces  which  have  been  persistently 
at  work  during  the  past  fifteen  years.  The  plays 
of  Ibsen  have  never  been  generally  successful  on 
the  stage  of  English-speaking  countries  in  the 
degree  attained  on  the  Continent,  although,  to  be 
sure,  there  have  been,  now  and  then,  isolated  in- 
stances in  which  some  play  of  Ibsen  has  won  popu- 
lar success.  On  the  other  hand,  the  plays  of 
Ibsen  translated  into  English  have  steadily  won  a 
wide  and  ever-increasing  reading  public.  Such 
an  influence  has  undoubtedly  exercised  a  revolu- 
tionary effect  upon  the  economic  conditions  of  the 
publishing  trade.  For  the  publisher  quite  prop- 
erly argued  that  if  the  plays  of  foreign  dram- 
atists, even  in  translations  more  or  less  inadequate, 
achieved  a  steady  sale,  it  was  quite  likely  that  the 
plays  of  native  dramatists  who  were  men  of  letters 
as  well  might  prove  commercially  profitable.  A 
socialist  like  Bernard  Shaw,  with  socialistic  views 
on  business,  in  1898  published  in  two  volumes  his 
Plays,  Pleasant  and  Unpleasant.    He  boldly  took 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         223 

the  financial  risk  of  the  transaction,  in  his  un- 
usual and  eccentric  contract,  realizing  that  this 
was  the  only  adequate  means  of  reaching  the  public 
which  his  plays  were  designed  to  interest.  Such  an 
incident  is  significant  in  the  history  of  the  pub- 
lishing of  plays  in  English;  for  Shaw  demonstra- 
ted that  plays,  stoutly  bound  and  well  printed, 
were  salable  commodities. 

A  final  impetus  has  been  given  to  the  publishing 
of  plays,  not  only  by  the  swing  of  the  dramatic 
movement,  the  popularization  of  the  idea  of  read- 
ing plays  as  literature,  but  also  by  the  unremitting 
efforts  of  critics  and  students  of  the  contemporary 
drama  to  bring  the  best  examples  to  the  attention  of 
the  public.  I  might  mention  a  large  number  of  crit- 
ics, men  and  women,  in  both  England  and  America, 
who  have  unselfishly  labored  in  the  interest  of  the 
contemporary  drama,  in  order  to  restore  it  to 
the  public  consciousness  as  a  branch  of  published 
literature.  In  this  country  striking  results  have 
flowed  from  the  courses  in  the  modern  drama  of- 
fered at  the  leading  American  universities — notably 
Harvard,  Columbia,  and  Yale.  To-day  there  are 
a  large  number  of  colleges  and  universities,  in- 
cluding State  institutions,  which  offer  courses  in 
the  modern  drama.  The  plays  of  the  best  play- 
wrights in  England  and  America — notably  Shaw, 
Galsworthy,  Wilde,  Pinero,  Jones,  and  Barker; 
and  Fitch,  Thomas,  Moody,  and  Mackaye — can 


224  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

now  be  secured  in  printed  form,  in  cheap  as  well 
as  in  expensive  editions. 

The  drama  of  to-day,  whether  of  Ibsen  or 
Bricux,  D'Annunzio  or  Shaw,  Hauptmann  or 
Synge,  has  won  international  hearing  as  a  pub- 
lished work  of  literature,  no  less  than  as  a  play 
produced  in  a  theater.  In  France  there  has  not 
been  any  real  divorce  in  modern  times  between 
literature  and  the  drama ;  but  the  same  is  not 
true  of  the  Germanic  countries.  After  a  long,  if 
amicable  separation,  the  reunion  between  litera- 
ture and  the  drama  has  at  last  been  effected  in 
England  and  the  United  States  as  well  as  in  Ger- 
many and  Austria.  In  the  United  States  in  par- 
ticular there  is  a  greater  relative  consumption  of 
"  outlander  "  plays,  either  in  English  or  translated 
into  English,  I  venture  to  say,  than  in  any  other 
country.  There  are  comparatively  few  plays  by 
English  and  American  dramatists  which  are 
translated  into  foreign  languages ;  and  it  is  indis- 
putable that  there  is  only  a  very  small,  though 
gradually  growing,  number  of  students  of  the 
English  and  American  drama  in  France,  Ger- 
many, Austria,  Italy,  and  the  Scandinavian  coun- 
tries. Translations  into  many  languages  of  the 
works  of  men  of  thought  and  originality,  such  as 
Wilde  and  Shaw,  have  paved  the  way ;  and  the 
time  is  assuredly  not  far  distant  when  the  wave  of 
cosmopolitan  culture  will  sweep  down  all  barriers 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         225 

in  the  path  of  its  irresistible  progress.  Such  an 
organization  as  The  Drama  League  of  America 
has  within  its  hands  the  opportunity  of  revolution- 
izing public  sentiment  and  public  judgment  of 
drama,  and  bringing  about  its  universal  recogni- 
tion as  one  of  the  supreme  cultural  forces  of  the 
century. 

The  popularization  of  the  printed  play,  as  a 
phase  of  the  resurgence  of  the  drama  in  English- 
speaking  countries,  is  one  of  the  most  momentous 
of  literary  phenomena  of  the  period.  A  direct 
consequence  of  this  new  movement  is  the  develop- 
ment in  the  form  and  technic  of  the  contemporary 
printed  play.  The  school  of  modern  realism,  seiz- 
ing upon  the  m3^stery  and  immensity  of  little 
things,  has  exhibited  as  one  of  its  chief  character- 
istics the  apotheosis  of  the  insignificant.  We  of 
to-day  have  been  wakened  to  a  consciousness  of  the 
miracle  of  the  commonplace,  the  significance  of 
the  insignificant.  This  realistic  movement  has 
wrought  its  indelible  effect  upon  the  modern 
drama,  in  technic  as  in  content.  The  drama,  by 
reason  of  its  temporal  and  physical  restriction, 
can  never  exhibit  the  elaboration,  detail,  and  mi- 
nute character  delineation  of  the  novel.  But  the 
dramatist  who  intends  to  write  drama  that  shall 
be  literature  as  well  must  bring  his  highest  lit- 
erary expertness  to  bear  in  order  to  achieve  a 
certain    realism,    a    certain    naturalness    in    the 


226  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

printed  play,  and  thereby  bring  it  into  com- 
petition, as  botli  commercial  commodity  and 
artistic  product,  Avith  the  elaborate  fiction  of 
the  realistic  novelist,  such  as  James,  Bourget, 
or  Edith  Wharton.  In  order  to  accomplish 
this  difficult  task  two  things  are  necessary: 
to  write  nothing  in  a  play  that  you  would 
not  write  in  a  novel,  and  to  import  into  the  art 
of  writing  drama,  in  so  far  as  is  permitted  by  the 
restrictions  of  the  theater,  the  methods  of  the  real- 
istic novelist.  To  put  it  another  way,  the  dram- 
atist is  beginning  to  do  away  entirely,  in  the  pub- 
lished play,  with  everything  that  reminds  the 
reader  of  a  theater  and  its  accessories.  At  the 
same  time,  in  order  so  far  as  possible  to  substitute 
the  author's  actual  conception  for  the  actor's  in- 
terpretation of  the  characters,  the  dramatist  has 
begun  to  describe  each  character  as  he  appears, 
with  sufficient  particularity,  and  from  time  to  time 
to  specify  his  movements,  his  gestures,  and  the 
emotional  play  of  his  features.  By  these  thor- 
oughly realistic  methods  the  dramatist  has  done 
away  with  the  hideous  jargon  of  the  theatric  code, 
the  scenic  chirography  which  used  to  make  a  play 
read  like  an  architect's  specifications.  It  was  Shaw 
who,  as  the  most  eminent  and  original  exemplar 
of  this  new  dramatic  realism,  protested  against  the 
practice  of  those  playwrights  "  who  dehberately 
make  their  plays  unreadable  by  flinging  repulsive 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         227 

stage  technicalities  in  the  face  of  the  public,  and 
omitting  from  their  descriptions  even  that  sim- 
plest common  decency  of  literature,  the  definite 
article.  I  wonder  how  many  readers  Charles 
Dickens  would  have  had,  or  deserved  to  have,  if  he 
had  written  in  this  manner: 

[Sykes  lights  pipe — calls  dog,  loads  pistol  with 
newspaper,  takes  bludgeon  from  R.  above  fireplace, 
and  strikes  Nancy.]  Nancy:  Oh,  Lord,  Bill! 
[Z>eV*.  Sykes  wipes  brow — shudders — takes  hat 
from  chair  O.  P. — sees  ghost,  not  'visible  to  au- 
dience— and  exit  L.  U.  JE.]." 

The  purpose  of  the  new  technic  is  to  translate 
the  play  from  the  sign  language  of  specifications 
into  the  language  of  reality — to  replace  jargon  by 
art.  A  reference  to  practising  craftsmen  of  the 
contemporary  period  will  suffice  to  exhibit  how  re- 
cent has  been  the  change.  The  worst  features  of 
"French's  Acting  Edition,"  for  instance,  are  found 
in  this  "  horrible  example "  from  Augustus 
Thomas's  Alabama,  first  produced  in  1890. 

Act  ni 

Scene:  Ruined  gate-way,  C.  Masonry  post,  R, 
standing;  the  other,  L,  in  ruins.  Virginia  creepers 
over  both.  Fragment  of  wall  on  either  side.  Back- 
ground of  tropical  shrubbery.    Calcium  on  for 


228  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

moon,  illuminating  wall,  and  front  of  stage  only. 
All  hack  of  wall  in  almost  total  darkness.  Foot- 
lights down  to  a  glow.  No  border  lights.  Song 
off  by  negroes,  before  rise  of  curtain,  "  Carry  m€ 
back,"  continued  diminuendo  after  curtain  is  up. 
Discovered :  Davenport  and  Mrs.  Page.    ; 

No  effort  has  been  made  here,  it  will  be  observed, 
to  spare  the  reader  the  meaningless  lingo  which, 
to  the  stage-manager,  is  expressive  description. 
If  we  go  back  to  Ibsen,  and  examine  his  dramas 
from  The  League  of  Youth  onward,  we  shall  ob- 
serve that  he  never  uses  stage  jargon;  and  that, 
as  he  perfected  his  technic,  his  stage  directions 
passed  from  the  extremely  laconic  to  the  ade- 
quately descriptive.  Take  first  the  opening  de- 
scription of  The  League  of  Youth: 

"  The  Seventeenth  of  May.  A  popular  fete  in 
the  Chamberlain's  grounds.  Music  and  dancing  in 
the  background.  Colored  lights  among  the  trees. 
In  the  middle,  somewhat  towards  the  back,  a  ros- 
trum; to  the  right,  the  entrance  to  a  large  refresh- 
ment tent;  before  it,  a  table  with  benches.  In  the 
foreground,  on  the  left,  another  table,  decorated 
with  flowers,  and  surrounded  with  lounging-chairs. 
A  crowd  of  people.  Lundestad,  with  a  committee 
badge  at  his  buttonhole,  stands  on  the  rostrum. 
RiNGDAL,  also  with  a  committee  badge,  at  the  table 
on  the  left. 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         229 

Ibsen's  characters  were  often  more  real  to  him 
than  his  personal  acquaintances.  He  knew  his 
characters  almost  from  their  birth — in  ancestral 
hereditament,  in  the  features  of  their  environment, 
in  nascent  qualities.  The  plays  themselves  are  "  in- 
finitely noted  ";  but  the  above  stage  description  is 
bare  to  the  point  of  nakedness.  The  plays  are 
divided  into  "  acts  " ;  in  the  earlier  plays  the  de- 
scriptions may  call  attention  to  the  stage  of  a 
theater;  there  is  no  attempt  at  description  of  the 
characters.  If  we  turn  now  to  the  opening  scene 
of  Hedda  Gabler,  we  shall  notice  a  marked  change 
in  the  direction  of  greater  elaboration : 

A  spacious,  handsome,  and  tastefully  furnished 
drawing-room,  decorated  in  dark  colors.  In  the 
hack,  a  wide  door-way  with  curtains  drawn  hack, 
leading  into  a  smaller  room,  decorated  in  the  same 
style  as  the  drawing-room.  In  the  right  wall  of 
the  front  room\,  a  folding-door  leading  out  to  the 
hall.  In  the  opposite  wall,  on  the  left,  a  glass 
door,  also  with  curtains  drawn  hack.  Through  the 
panes  can  he  seen  part  of  a  veranda  outside,  and 
trees  covered  with  autumn  foliage.  An  oval  tahle, 
with  a  cover  on  it,  and  surrounded  with  chairs, 
stands  well  forward.  In  front,  by  the  wall  on  the 
right,  a  wide  stove  of  dark  porcelain,  a  high' 
backed  arm-chair,  a  cushioned  foot-rest,  and  two 
foot-stools.    A  settee,  with  a  small  round  table  in 


230  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

iront  of  it,  fills  the  upper  right-hand  corner.  In 
front,  on  the  left,  a  little  way  from  the  wall,  a 
sofa.  Further  back  than  the  glass  door,  a  piano. 
On  either  side  of  the  door-way  at  the  back,  a  what- 
not with  terra-cotta  and  majolica  ornaments. 
Against  the  back  wall  of  the  inner  room,  a  sofa, 
with  a  table  and  one  or  two  chairs.  Over  the  sofa 
hangs  the  portrait  of  a  handsome  elderly  man  in 
a  general's  uniform.  Over  the  table,  a  hanging 
lamp,  with  an  oval  glass  shade.  A  number  of  bou- 
quets are  arranged  about  the  drawing-room,  in 
vases  and  glasses.  Others  lie  upon  the  tables.  The 
floors  in  both  rooms  are  coi'ered  with  thick  car- 
pets. Morning  light.  The  sun  shines  in  through 
the  glass  door. 

Miss  Juliana  Tesman,  with  her  bonnet  on 
and  carrying  a  parasol,  comes  in  from-  the  hall, 
followed  by  Berta,  who  carries  a  bouquet  wrapped 
in  paper.  Miss  Tesman  is  a  comely  and  pleasant- 
looking  lady  of  about  sixty-five.  She  is  nicely  but 
simply  dressed  in  a  gray  walking-costume.  Berta 
is  a  middle-aged  woman  of  plain  and  rather  coun- 
trified appearance. 

Here  we  observe  that  the  description  is  minute 
in  its  detail,  and  that  there  is  a  tiny  thumb-nail 
sketch  of  each  character.  The  description  of  the 
room,  we  remark,  consists  after  all  only  in  speci- 
fications ;  so  that  when  we  see  the  play,  as  I  have 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         23.1 

seen  it  at  the  Lcssing  Theater  in  Berlin,  we  ob- 
serve it  to  be  an  exact  replica  of  the  room  de- 
scribed by  Ibsen.  Furthermore,  the  principal 
characters,  when  they  enter,  are  projected  before 
one  in  little  cameos,  which  indelibly  fix  their  per- 
sonality upon  one's   consciousness. 

(Hedda  enters  from  the  left  through  the  in- 
ner room.  She  is  a  woman  of  nine-and-twenty. 
Her  face  and  figure  show  refinement  and  distinc- 
tion. Her  complexion  is  pale  and  opaque.  Her 
steel-gray  eyes  express  a  cold,  unruffled  repose. 
Her  hair  is  of  an  agreeable  medium  brown,  but  not 
particularly  abundant.  She  is  dressed  in  a  taste- 
ful, somewhat  loose-fitting  morning  gown.) 

Ibsen  pursued  a  genuinely  scientific  method  in 
his  studies  of  character  and  society ;  and  in  con- 
sequence, no  doubt,  deemed  it  unnecessary  to 
elaborate  personal  descriptions  of  characters 
which  are  fathomed  in  the  exposition  of  the  play  1 
itself,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  down  to  the  last  fold 
of  their  souls." 

The  German  and  Austrian  dramatists,  for  the  /^ 
most  part,  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  putting  their 
stage  directions  in  language  which  does  not  refer    ; 
directly  to  the  stage  itself.    For  example,  Haupt-  / 
mann,  in  Vor  Somienaufgang,  gives  a  diagram  of  I 
the  scene ;  so  also  does  Schnitzler  in  certain  of  his 
plays.     11  Piu  Forte,  by  the  Italian,  Giacosa,  is 


232  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

noticeable  by  reason  of  this  peculiarity.  Bahr 
is  very  effective  in  his  artistic  pen-portraits  of  the 
characters.  Pinero  uses  a  much  more  summary 
method  in  stage  descriptions  than  does  Ibsen  in 
his  later  manner,  as  well  as  a  very  laconic  de- 
scription of  the  characters.  Illustrations  from 
The  Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith  are  characteris- 
tic: 

The  scene  is  a  room  in  the  Palazzo  Arconati, 
on  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice.  The  room  itself  is 
beautiful  in  its  decayed  grandeur,  but  the  furni- 
ture and  hangings  are  either  tawdry  and  mere- 
tricious or  avowedly  modern.  The  three  windows 
at  the  back  open  on  to  a  narrow,  covered  balcony, 
or  loggia,  and  through  them  can  be  seen  the  west 
side  of  the  canal.  Between  the  recessed  double- 
doors,  on  either  side  of  the  room,  is  a  fireplace 
out  of  use,  and  a  marble  mantel-piece,  but  a 
tiled  stove  is  used  for  a  wood  fire.  Breakfast 
things  are  laid  on  a  table.  The  sun  streams  into 
the  room. 

(Agnes  enters.  She  moves  firmly  but  noise- 
lessly— a  placid  woman  with  a  sweet,  low  voice. 
Her  dress  is  plain  to  the  verge  of  coarseness;  her 
face,  which  has  little  color,  is  at  first  glance  al- 
most wholly  unattractive.) 

In  the  case  of  D'Annunzio,  the  artist  continu- 
ally asserts  himself  throughout  his  plays,  no  mat- 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         233 

ter  in  how  apparently  insignificant  details.  Con- 
ceiving the  drama  to  be  an  expression  of  the 
highest  art  of  the  poet,  he  has  filled  every  inter- 
stice of  his  poems  with  the  sense,  the  odor,  the 
color  of  poetry.  Thus,  in  Gioconda,  the  character 
of  the  rooms  artistically  expresses  the  character 
of  the  owners ;  he  makes  us  feel  this  as  an  element 
of  the  emotional  atmosphere  of  the  piece.  Thus, 
following  the  description  of  a  certain  room,  comes 
this  passage : 

The  sentiment  expressed  by  the  aspect  of  the 
place  is  very  different  from  that  which  softens 
the  aspect  of  the  room  in  the  other  house,  over 
against  the  mystic  hill.  Here  the  choice  and 
analogy  of  every  form  reveal  an  aspiration 
towards  a  carnal,  victorious,  and  creative  life. 
The  two  divine  messengers  seem  to  stir  and  widen 
the  close  atmosphere  incessantly  with  the  rush  of 
their  immense  flight. 

It  is  the  conviction  of  D'Annunzio  that  it  is  his 
primary  function,  as  artistic  technician,  to  create 
an  atmosphere  of  real  life.  This  is  possible  only 
through  the  effort  to  cast  stage  directions — 
"  business  " — into  the  form  of  art,  not  into  mere 
ejaculated,  shorthand  commands  to  the  actor; 
never  to  mention  the  stage  or  any  of  its  proper- 
ties ;  always  to  create  the  completest  possible  ar- 
tistic illusion.    A  few  of  his  stage  directions,  cited 


2S4!  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

below,  indicate  their  two-fold  role ;  to  convey  to 
the  reader  the  emotional  under-currcnts  of  the 
dramatic  movement,  and  to  the  actor  a  sense  of 
his  task. 

(A  pause,  burdened  with  a  thousand  undefined, 
and  inevitable   things.) 

{Involuntarily/  she  turns,  and  looks  around  the 
room,  as  if  to  embrace  everything  that  is  in  it 
with  one  look.  The  curtains  tremble,  the  rain 
increases.  She  breathes  in  the  damp  fragrance 
that  enters  at  the  window.  For  one  instant  the 
strung  bow  of  her  will  slackens.) 

(.  .  .  The  water  gathers  tremulously  in  her 
eyes.  Two  marvelous  tears  form  little  by  little, 
shine,  and  slowly  run  down  her  cheeks.  Before 
they  reach  her  mouth  she  stops  them  with  her 
fingers,  diffuses  them  over  her  face,  as  if  to  bathe 
in  lustral  dew;  for  it  is  not  by  the  remembrance 
or  the  trace  of  human  bloodshed  that  she  is  moved, 
but  by  the  sight  of  a  thing  of  beauty,  solitary  and 
free.  She  has  received  the  supreme  gift  of  beauty; 
a  truce  to  anguish,  a  pause  to  fear.  The  sublime 
lightning-flash  of  joy  has  shone  through  her 
wounded  soul  for  an  instant,  rendering  it  crystal- 
line as  tears.  These  tears  are  but  the  souVs  mute 
and  ardent  offering  before  a  masterpiece.) 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         235 

This  is  poetry ;  this  is  art.  It  may,  however,  be 
urged  with  reason  by  the  puzzled  actress  that  she 
is  quite  unable  to  make  "  two  tears  slowly  run  down 
her  cheeks."  Signor  D'Annunzio  would  be  en- 
tirely within  his  rights,  as  a  defender  of  the  new 
technic,  in  retorting:  "You  cannot  deny  that  I 
have  enthralled  the  reader  of  my  play.  And  as 
for  you,  the  player — I  have  described  in  poetic 
language  the  external  act  of  the  characters,  and 
also  the  spiritual  states  through  which  they  pass. 
It  is  for  you,  as  an  artist  in  your  domain,  to  real- 
ize these  expressions,  in  his  own  domain,  of  another 
artist — myself.  How  you  do  it  is  not  my  concern : 
it  is  your  concern  as  an  interpreter  of  the  spirit 
of  the  new  drama." 

Oscar  Wilde  was  a  remarkable  genius,  beyond 
doubt.  As  a  dramatist  he  was  guilty  of  the  grav- 
est technical  faults,  was  positively  mawkish  in  his 
sentimentality,  and  absurdly  conventional  in  stage 
morals.  Yet  because  he  was  a  consummate  stylist, 
a  conversational  prodigy,  an  artist  in  every  fiber, 
he  triumphed  signally  over  his  tremendous  handi- 
caps. Certain  of  his  descriptions  of  his  characters 
are  like  delicate  miniatures — such,  for  instance, 
as  this  of  Sir  Robert  Chiltern  in  Lady  Winder- 
mere^ s  Fan:. 

A  man  of  forty,  hut  looMng  somerehat  younger. 
Clean-shaven,   with  finely-cut  features,  dark-haired 


236  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

and  dark-eyed.  A  personality  of  mark.  Not  popular 
— few  personalities  are.  But  intensely  admired  by 
the  few,  and  deeply  respected  by  the  many.  The 
note  of  his  manner  is  that  of  perfect  distinction, 
with  a  slight  touch  of  pride.  One  feels  that  he  is 
conscious  of  the  success  he  has  made  in  life.  A 
nervous  temperament  with  a  tired  look.  The 
finely-chiseled  mouth  and  chin  contrast  strikingly 
with  the  romantic  expression  in  the  deep-set  eyes. 
The  variance  is  suggestive  of  an  almost  complete 
separation  of  passion  and  intellect,  as  though 
thought  and  emotion  were  each  isolated  in  its  own 
sphere  through  some  violence  of  will-power.  There 
is  no  nervousness  in  the  nostrils,  and  in  the  pale^ 
thin,  pointed  hands.  It  woidd  be  inaccurate  to 
call  him  picturesque.  Picturesqueness  cannot  sur- 
vive the  House  of  Commons.  But  Van  Dyck  would 
have  liked  to  paint  his  head. 

Delightful  as  is  such  a  description,  it  is  marked 
by  one  fault  to  which  attention  must  be  clearly 
directed.  The  two  indispensable  obligations  of  the 
new  technic  are  that  stage  descriptions  and  stage 
directions  must  neither  remind  the  reader  of  the 
stage  nor  shatter  the  illusion  of  perfect  objectivity 
by  obtruding  the  personality  of  the  author  be- 
tween the  reader  and  the  dramatic  characters. 
Unpardonable  from  the  latter  standpoint  is  the 
typical  Oscarism :  "  Picturesqueness  cannot  sur- 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         237 

vive  the  House  of  Commons."  And  Wilde  fre- 
quently breaks  the  first  rule  as  well  by  reminding 
the  reader  of  the  stage  and  its  properties. 

The  greatest  master  of  the  new  technic  is  Ber- 
nard Shaw.  As  I  pointed  out  at  some  length  in  his 
biography,  Shaw  has  made  a  genuine  contribution 
to  the  art  of  the  drama,  both  critical  and  con- 
structive. It  has  been  his  aim  to  create  not  mere 
drama,  but  genuine  literature.  Through  long  and 
cloistral  preoccupation  with  the  science  and  art 
of  dramatic  representation,  Ibsen  developed  in 
supreme  degree  his  faculty  of  stereoscopic  imag- 
ination. Writing  to  the  Reverend  Christian 
Hostrup  from  Munich  in  1888,  he  remarked:  "I 
hardly  ever  go  to  the  theater  here,  but  I  enjoy 
reading  a  play  now  and  then  in  the  evening;  and 
as  I  have  a  powerful  imagination  where  anything 
dramatic  is  concerned,  I  can  see  everything  that 
is  really  natural,  authentic,  and  credible  happen- 
ing before  my  eyes.  The  reading  of  the  play  pro- 
duces almost  the  same  effect  as  its  perform- 
ance." 

In  the  same  way,  through  his  experience  as  a 
constructive  dramatist,  and  his  career  as  a  dra- 
matic critic,  Shaw  learned  the  secret  of  effecting 
the  complete  visualization  of  the  painted  sets  of 
the  stage.  In  the  construction  of  his  plays  he  has 
constantly  borne  in  mind  the  four  factors  in- 
volved: the  author,  the  reader,  the  actor,  and  the 


238  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

spectator.  From  the  standpoint  of  the  author, 
he  has  demonstrated  by  his  practice  that  the  bar 
to  the  publication  of  the  contemporary  drama  is 
the  repulsive  stage  jargon  of  the  prompt  book. 
From  the  standpoint  of  the  reader  he  has  demon- 
strated, as  a  modern  "  realist  "  basing  his  plays  on 
a  "  scientific  natural  history,"  that  the  secret  of 
making  the  modern  play  readable  is  to  abandon 
"  acts  "  and  "  scenes,"  and  to  endow  the  play  with 
the  finish  and  elaboration  of  the  highest  forms  of 
contemporary  realistic  fiction.  "  Everything  that 
the  actor  or  the  scene-painter  sJioics  to  the  audience 
must  be  described — not  technically  specified,  but 
imaginatively,  vividly,  humorously,  in  a  word,  ar- 
tistically described — to  the  reader  by  the  author. 
In  describing  the  scene,  take  just  as  much  trouble 
to  transport  your  reader's  imagination  as  you 
would  in  a  narrative.  Your  imaginary  persons 
must  not  call  *  off  the  stage  ' ;  your  guns  must  not 
be  fired  '  behind  the  scenes  ' ;  you  must  not  tell  the 
public  that  '  part  of  the  stage  is  removed  to  repre- 
sent the  entrance  to  a  cellar.'  It  will  often  strain 
your  ingenuity  to  describe  a  scene  so  that,  though  a 
stage  manager  can  set  it  from  the  printed  descrip- 
tion, yet  not  a  word  is  let  slip  that  could  remind 
the  reader  of  the  footlights.  But  it  can  be  done; 
and  the  reward  for  the  trouble  is  that  people  can 
read  your  plays — even  actor-managers,  who  suf- 
fer just  as  much  from  the  deadening,  disillusion- 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         239 

izing,  vulgarizing  effect  of  the  old-fashioned  stage 
direction  as  other  people  do." 

The  most  awkward  barrier  to  the  success  of  the 
work  of  a  dramatic  craftsman  is  the  actor.  How 
and  when  shall  the  author  assure  himself  that  his 
intentions  shall  be  adequately  expressed  by  the 
histrionic  interpreter?  Benedetto  Croce  has 
pointed  out,  in  his  Aesthetic,  that  in  order  to  be 
the  true  critic — that  is  to  say,  the  true  interpre- 
ter— one  must  rise  to  the  level  of  the  creator,  and 
in  that  moment  identify  oneself  with  the  creator. 
So  the  actor,  in  order  to  interpret  the  designs  of 
the  dramatist,  must  rise  to  the  level  of  the  dram- 
atist and  for  the  moment  effect  the  esthetic  iden- 
tification. Many  of  Ibsen's  plays  on  their  first 
and  early  stage  representations  must  have  been 
most  inadequately  acted.  The  stage  directions 
were  insufficiently  detailed  to  break  through  the 
mechanical  traditions  of  "  character  acting." 
Even  when  Ibsen  himself  directed  the  rehearsals 
he  was  incapable  of  securing  from  the  players  the 
effects  he  sought.  As  Strindberg  once  remarked: 
"  I  have  heard  that  Norway's  greatest  dramatist 
at  rehearsal  wrote  down  his  directions  on  paper, 
but  that  not  a  single  one  was  ever  followed."  In 
speaking  of  his  personal  experience  as  dramatist- 
producer,  Strindberg  confesses  that  he  has  often 
seen  an  actor  give  an  interpretation  of  a  role 
quite   different   from  his   own   conception  of  the 


240  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

character.  "  In  case  the  interpretation  was  con- 
sistently worked  out  I  made  no  alterations  in  it, 
but  let  the  actor  alone.  It  is  better  for  him  to 
carry  out  his  conception  of  the  character,  as  he 
has  thought  it  out  for  himself,  than  for  me  to 
shatter  his  creation,  which  has  both  unity  and 
consistency."  I  have  in  mind  several  instances  in 
which,  according  to  his  own  confession,  Mr.  Shaw 
followed  a  precisely  similar  course — this,  too, 
despite  the  elaborate  exposition  of  scenic  and  char- 
acter description,  of  details  of  interpretative  act- 
ing, which  his  method  supplies. 

In  a  large  sense,  the  new  technic  is  a  sort  of 
''  Acting  Made  Easy  " ;  for  the  dramatist,  out  of 
his  own  imagination,  furnishes  an  infinitude  of  in- 
finitesimal, but  essential,  details  for  the  informa- 
tion of  the  interpreter.  Did  the  dramatist,  the 
first  cause  and  final  arbiter,  not  supply  this  wealth 
of  detail,  the  actor  would  be  obliged  to  supply  it 
himself.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  in  such  an 
event,  the  actor  would  supply  it — and  supply  it 
wrong.  "There  is  the  actor  (who  is  nowadays 
the  manager  also),"  observes  Mr.  Shaw,  "an  ex- 
ceptionally susceptible,  imaginative,  fastidious 
person,  easily  put  out  by  the  slightest  incongruity, 
easily  possessed  by  the  slightest  suggestion.  His 
work  is  so  peculiar  and  important ;  its  delicacy 
depends  so  much  on  the  extent  to  which  a  play  can 
be  made  real  to  him  and  the  technical  conditions 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         241 

reduced  to  unnoticed  matters  of  habit;  above  all, 
it  is  so  necessary  to  his  self-respect  that  the  obliga- 
tion he  is  under  to  make  himself  a  means  to  the 
author's  end  should  not  be  made  an  excuse 
for  disregarding  his  dignity  as  a  man,  that  an 
author  can  hardly  be  too  careful  to  cherish  the 
actor's  illusion  and  respect  his  right  to  be  ap- 
proached as  a  professional  man  and  not  merely 
ordered  to  do  this  or  that  without  knowing 
why." 

Shaw  is  essentially  a  sociologist.  His  scenic 
descriptions  are  not  mere  specifications  of  fur- 
niture and  scenery.  They  are  actually  essays 
in  social  criticism.  In  like  manner  his  descriptions 
of  characters  are  little  vignettes  of  social  as  well 
as  individual  psychology.  His  stage  directions  are 
designed  to  enlighten  the  reader,  and  to  assist  the 
actor  in  the  task  of  interpreting  character.  All 
this  is  quite  as  it  should  be.  The  description  of 
the  dentist's  operating  room  in  You  Never  Can 
Tell,  for  example,  or  of  Ramsden's  study  in  Man 
and  Superman,  is  at  once  an  epitome  and  an  ar- 
raignment of  a  social  era.  A  phase  of  ethical  or 
industrial  evolution  is  compressed  into  an  artistic 
snapshot  of  a  parlor.  Perhaps  no  more  satisfac- 
tory illustration  of  Shaw's  method,  of  scenic  and 
character  description  combined,  is  to  be  found  in 
his  plays  than  the  opening  of  The  DeviVs  Disciple: 


243  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

At  the  most  wretched  hour  between  a  blacTc 
night  and  a  wintry  morning  in  the  year  1777 
Mrs.  Dudgeon,  of  New  Hampshire,  is  sitting  up 
in  the  kitchen  and  general  dwelling-room  of  her 
farm-house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  of  Web- 
sterbridge.  She  is  not  a  prepossessing  woman.  No 
woman  looks  her  best  after  sitting  up  all  night; 
and  Mrs.  Dudgeon^s  face,  even  at  its  best,  is  grimly 
trenched^  by  the  channels  into  which  the  barren 
forms  and  observances  of  a  dead  Puritanism  can 
pen  a  bitter  temper  and  a  fierce  pride.  She  is  an 
elderly  matron  who  has  worked  hard,  and  got 
nothing  by  it  except  dominion  and  detestation  in 
her  sordid  home,  and  an  unquestioned  reputation 
for  piety  and  respectability  among  her  neigh- 
bors, to  whom  drink  and  debauchery  are  still  so 
much  more  tempting  than  religion  and  rectitude 
that  they  conceive  goodness  simply  as  self-denial. 
This  conception  is  easily  extended  to  others-denial, 
and  finally  generalized  as  covering  anything  dis- 
agreeable. So  Mrs.  Dudgeon,  being  exceedingly 
disagreeable,  is  held  to  be  exceedingly  good.  Short 
of  flat  felony,  she  enjoys  complete  license  ex- 
cept for  amiable  weaknesses  of  any  sort,  and 
is,  consequently,  without  knowing  it,  the  most 
licentious  woman  in  the  parish  on  the  strength 
of  never  having  broken  the  seventh  command- 
ment or  missed  a  Sunday  at  the  Presbyterian 
church. 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         243 

The  year  1777  is  the  one  in  which  the  passions 
roused  by  the  hreaking-off  of  the  American  colo- 
nies from  England,  more  by  their  own  weight  than 
their  own  will,  boiled  up  to  shooting  point,  the 
shooting  being  idealized  to  the  English  mind  as 
suppression  of  rebellion  and  maintenance  of  Brit- 
ish dominion,  and  to  the  American  as  defense  of 
liberty,  resistance  to  tyranny,  and  self-sacrifice  on 
the  altar  of  the  Rights  of  Man.  Into  the  merits  of 
these  idealizations  it  is  not  here  necessary  to  in- 
quire; suffice  it  to  say,  without  prejudice,  that 
they  hnve  convinced  both  Americans  and  English 
that  the  most  high-minded  course  for  them  to  pur- 
sue is  for  them  to  kill  as  many  of  one  another  as 
possible,  and  that  military  operations  to  that  end 
are  in  full  swing,  morally  supported  by  confident 
requests  from  the  clergy  of  both  sides  for  the 
blessing  of  God  on  their  arms. 

Under  such  circumstances  many  other  women 
besides  this  disagreeable  Mrs.  Dudgeon  find  them- 
selves sitting  up  all  night  waiting  for  news.  Like 
her,  too,  they  fall  asleep  towards  morning,  at  the 
risk  of  nodding  themselves  into  the  kitchen  fire. 
Mrs.  Dudgeon  sleeps  with  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
and  her  feet  on  a  broad  fender  of  iron  laths,  the 
step  of  the  domestic  altar  of  the  fire-place,  with 
its  huge  hobs  and  boiler,  and  its  hinged  arm  above 
the  smoky  mantel-shelf  for  roasting.  The  plain 
kitchen  table  is  opposite  the  fire  at  her  elbow,  with 


244.  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

a  candle  on  it  in  a  tin  sconce.  Her  chair,  like  all 
the  others  in  the  room,  is  uncushioned  and  un- 
painted;  hut,  as  it  has  a  round  railed  back  and  a 
seat  conventionally/  molded  to  the  sitter''s  curves, 
it  is,  comparatively,  a  chair  of  state.  The  room 
has  three  doors,  one  on  the  same  side  as  the  fire- 
place, near  the  corner,  leading  to  the  best  bed- 
room; one,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  opposite 
ivall,  leading  to  the  scullery  and  washhouse;  and 
the  house  door,  icith  its  latch,  heavy  lock,  and 
clumsy  wooden  bar,  in  the  front  "wall,  between  the 
window  in  its  middle,  and  the  corner  next  the  bed- 
room door.  Betzceen  the  door  and  the  window  a 
rack  of  pegs  suggests  to  the  deductive  observer 
that  the  men  of  the  house  are  all  away,  as  there 
are  no  hats  or  coats  on  them.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  window  the  clock  hangs  on  a  nail,  with  its 
white  wooden  dial,  black  iron  weights,  and  brass 
pendulum.  Between  the  clock  and  the  corner  a  big 
cupboard,  locked,  stands  on  a  dwarf  dresser  full 
of  common  crockery. 

,  On  the  side  opposite  the  ^re-place,  between  the 
door  and  the  corner,  a  shamelessly  ugly  black 
horsehair  sofa  stands  against  the  wall.  An  inr 
spection  of  its  stridulous  surface  shows  that  Mrs. 
Dudgeon  is  not  alone.  A  girl  of  sixteen  or  sevens 
teen  has  fallen  asleep  on  it.  She  is  a  xcild,  timid- 
looking  creature  with  black  hair  and  tanned  skin. 
Her  frock,  a  scanty  garment,  is  rent,  weather- 


THE  PI-AY  AND  THE  READER         245 

stained,  herry-stained,  and  by  no  means  scrupu- 
lously clean.  It  hangs  on  her  with  a  freedom  which, 
t alien  with  her  brown  legs  and  bare  feet,  suggests 
no  great  stock  of  underclothing. 

Suddenly  there  comes  a  rapping  at  the  door,  not 
loud  enough  to  wake  the  sleepers.  Then  knocking 
which  disturbs  Mrs.  Dudgeon  a  little.  Finally  the 
latch  is  tried,  whereupon  she  springs  up  at  once. 

Excellent  illustrations  of  stage  directions,  solely 
designed  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  the  reader 
in  understanding  the  situation,  the  actor  in  in- 
terpreting the  role,  are  found  in  this  same  play: 

(Judith  smiles,  implying  "  How  stupid  of 
me  "/) 

BuRGOYNE.  (To  Dudgeon)  "By  the  way, 
since  you  are  not  Mr.  Anderson,  do  we  still, 
— eh.  Major  Swindon?"  (Meaning,  "do  we  still 
hang  him?  ") 

It  is  regrettable,  in  view  of  Shaw's  admir- 
able effort  to  achieve  a  new  form  of  technic,  that 
he  has  fallen  into  one  unpardonable  error.  A  cer- 
tain piquancy  in  the  reading,  perhaps,  derives 
from  Shaw's  practice  of  speaking,  in  his  descrip- 
tions, in  his  own  person.  Perhaps,  too,  a  cer- 
tain laxity  might  be  granted  in  comedy  which 
would  be  forbidden  in  the  serious  drama.     But  to 


246  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  dramatist,  realistic  in  spirit,  who  avowedly 
founds  his  characters  on  a  "genuinely  scientific 
natural  history,"  there  is  no  legitimate  excuse  for 
obtruding  the  refractory  lens  of  his  own  tempera- 
ment between  the  reader  and  the  characters  of  the 
drama.  In  The  DeviVs  Disciple  Shaw  appeals  to 
liistory  thus : 

(".  .  .  Mrs.  Dudgeon,  now  an  intruder  in  her 
own  home,  stands  erect,  crushed  hy  the  weight  of 
the  law  on  women. — For  at  this  time,  remember, 
Mary  Wollstonecraft  is  as  yet  only  a  girl  of 
eighteen,  and  her  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of 
Women  is  still  fourteen  years  off.") 

The  single  word,  "  remember,"  conjures  up  the 
figure  of  the  social  philosopher,  Shaw,  lecturing 
to  us  with  critical  forefinger  upraised.  It  is  the 
outworn  method  of  the  novelist,  with  his  discur- 
sive moralizings  addressed  to  the  "Gentle  Reader." 
In  Man  and  Superman,  a  direct  allusion  to  the 
drama  itself,  Shaw's  besetting  sin,  is  conspicuous: 

How  old  is  Roehuclc!  The  question  is  important 
on  the  threshold  of  a  drama  of  ideas;  for  under 
such  circumstances  everything  depends  on  whether 
his  adolescence  belonged  to  the  sixties  or  to  the 
eighties. 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         247 

He  {Mr.  Robinson)  must,  one  thinks,  be  the 
jeune  premier;  for  it  is  not  in  reason  to  suppose 
that  a  second  such  attractive  male  figure  should 
appear  in  one  story. 

Numerous  illustrations  might  be  cited  of  this 
fault — that  of  importing  into  the  contemporary 
English  drama  that  pleasing  fault  of  pre-realistic 
English  fiction:  imperfect  objectivity.  The  sub- 
jective note  is  an  intrusion  in  all  truly  realistic 
literature  of  narration.  The  aim  of  the  new  techr 
nic  is  to  create  a  perfectly  objective  illusion  for 
the  picture-frame  stage,  imaginatively  for  the 
reader  as  well  as  actually  for  the  spectator.  If  the 
dramatist  is  self-conscious  his  characters  step  out 
of  the  frame  and  shatter  the  illusion.  The  new 
dramatist,  notably  Shaw,  has  performed  a  genuine 
service  to  literature  in  making  the  reader  forget 
that  his  characters  are  fictions  of  the  stage ;  but  he 
sometimes  cancels  that  service  in  destroying  the 
illusion  he  has  striven  to  create  by  reminding  us 
that  these  characters  are  merely  the  puppets  of 
his  own  brain. 

The  consequences  which  shall  inevitably  result 
from  the  practice  of  publishing  plays  in  English- 
speaking  countries  are  destined  to  be  momentous 
and  far-reaching.  In  the  principal  countries  of 
Europe  the  publishing  of  plays  is  as  much  a  busi- 
ness as  the  publishing  of  other  forms  of  literature. 
Indeed,  the  drama  is  recognized  in  Europe  as  an 


248  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

integral  branch  of  literature,  as  legitimate  a  form 
of  art  expression  as  the  novel,  the  short-story,  or 
the  sonnet.  The  consequence,  of  highest  signifi- 
cance for  English-speaking  countries,  of  the  pub- 
lishing of  plan's  is  the  cultivation  and  creation  of 
a  trained  body  of  theater-goers,  rendered  expert 
in  the  art  and  science  of  judging  plays  through 
reading  tliem.  From  the  modern  standpoint,  I 
venture  to  suggest  that  there  is  one  new  concep- 
tion of  the  ideal  spectator:  the  intelligent  theater- 
goer who  reads  plays.  The  man  or  woman  who  ac- 
quires the  habit  of  reading  plays  gradually  de- 
velops considerable  critical  faculty  in  judging 
plays  on  their  true  merits,  not  only  as  literature, 
as  "closet  drama,"  but  as  drama  designed  for  stage 
production.  There  is  a  gradual  cultivation  of  the 
stereoscopic  imagination,  the  faculty  of  visualiz- 
ing the  dramatic  production,  which  arises  from  a 
perusal  of  the  printed  play.  The  reader  learns 
intuitively  to  put  himself  in  the  place  of  the  dram- 
atist, to  grasp  the  dramatic  conception  of  the 
piece,  and  to  analyze  the  emotional  reactions  in 
himself.  He  learns  to  test  the  validity  and  worth 
of  the  sensations  aroused  in  himself  by  the  play, 
unconfused  by  the  subconscious  pressure  of  the 
crowd-sense  felt  in  the  theater.  Carried  off  his 
feet  in  the  theater  by  a  wave  of  sentiment  induced 
by  the  collective  consciousness,  he  may  discover 
afterward,  on  perusal  of  the  printed  play,  that 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         249 

theatrical  effects  attained  in  the  playhouse  stand 
revealed  in  the  cold  accusatory  print  as  having 
been  achieved  by  means  essentially  cheap  and  un- 
worthy. The  reader  acquires  thus  some  modicum 
of  tlie  true  critical  and  esthetic  sense.  After  see- 
ing a  piece  in  the  theater  he  learns  to  ask  himself, 
after  the  manner  of  Sainte-Beuve :  "  Was  I  right 
to  be  pleased?  Could  I  have  laughed  here,  ap- 
plauded there,  wept  real  tears  over  such  cheap 
manufactured  pathos.?  To  think  that  I  should 
have  been  thrilled,  moved,  stirred  by  such  patent 
tricks,  such  banal  sentiment !  Never  again !  " 
Thus  comes  about  a  gradual  readjustment  of 
standards,  cultivation  of  the  powers  of  imagina- 
tion, elevation  of  the  criteria  of  criticism.  The 
inanities  of  the  fashionable  society  comedy,  the 
gross  improbabilities  of  melodrama,  the  artificial- 
ities of  the  machine-made  piece  after  a  time  begin 
to  pall  upon,  and  to  disgust,  the  cultivated  reader 
of  plays. 

Ultimately,  the  influence  thus  wrought  upon  the 
play-going  public  reacts  in  the  most  direct  and 
beneficial  way  upon  the  drama  itself.  Such  cul- 
tivated intelligences,  such  ideal  spectators,  reject 
in  the  theater  itself  plays  which  obviously  do  not 
measure  up  to  the  high  standards  inculcated  in 
them  by  the  reading  of  the  best  plays.  A  public 
thus  enlightened  becomes  vastly  more  exigent  than 
before  in  its  demands  for  higher  and  higher  forms 


250  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

of  dramatic  art.  This  public  thus  comes  in  time 
to  embody  a  species  of  collective  criticism.  The 
dramatist  and  the  actor,  as  a  direct  consequence 
of  the  enlightenment  of  the  public  by  the  highest 
types  of  dramatic  art,  react  to  this  new  pressure, 
and  are  forced  to  higher  standards  of  craftsman- 
ship and  dramaturgy.  No  longer  will  the  dram- 
atist be  able  to  "  hide  a  poverty  of  ideas  behind 
the  riches  of  theatrical  production,  or  sterility  of 
imagination  behind  the  stage  carpenter,  or  defec- 
tive characterization  behind  the  resourceful  genius 
of  the  actor."  No  longer  will  the  actor  be  able 
to  substitute  flashy  characterization  for  the  tem- 
peramental personality  projected  by  the  dram- 
atist, or  to  obscure  the  author's  intent  through 
specious  histrionic  tricks.  The  dramatist  is  ulti- 
mately forced  toward  impeccable  technic,  deeper 
characterization,  greater  consistency  of  ideas, 
more  authentic  emotional  denotement.  The  actor 
is  ultimately  forced  towards  more  adequate  im- 
personation, greater  naturalness,  superior  forms 
of  characterization  and  interpretation.  Thus  the 
mutual  action  and  interaction  between  the  en- 
lightened public,  on  the  one  hand,  the  dramatist, 
and  incidentally,  the  player,  on  the  other,  tend 
toward  the  persistent  elevation  of  the  drama,  the 
improvement  of  the  art  of  acting,  and  the  creation 
of  a  more  intelligent,  more  critical,  more  cultivated 
play-going  public. 


THE  PLAY  AND  THE  READER         251 

The  works  of  the  greater  dramatists,  both  on 
the  stage  and  in  the  study,  create  the  very  taste 
indispensable  for  the  advancement  of  the  arts  of 
the  drama  and  of  the  theater.  And,  in  re- 
turn, the  taste  thus  created  forces  the  drama  up 
to  the  standards  set  by  the  highest  masters  of 
the  art.  One  of  the  greatest  instrumentalities  in 
achieving  this  progressive  evolutional  advance  of 
the  drama,  with  all  its  implications,  is,  and  will 
more  effectively  be  recognized  to  be,  the  publica- 
tion of  plays. 


IX 

THE  NEW  CONTENT 

"  People  imagine  that  actions  and  feelings  are  dictated 
by  moral  systems,  by  religious  systems,  by  codes  of  honor 
and  conventions  of  conduct  which  lie  outside  the  real 
human  will.  .  .  .  These  conventions  do  not  supply  them 
with  their  motives.  They  make  very  plausible  ex  post 
facto  excuses  for  their  conduct;  but  the  real  motives  are 
deep  down  in  the  will  itself.  And  so  an  infinite  comedy 
arises  in  everyday  life  between  the  real  motives  and  the 
alleged  artificial  motives." — Bebnabd  Shaw. 

The  contemporary  era  reveals  epochal  changes 
in  the  form  of  the  drama.  Along  with  the  evolu- 
tion in  form  has  proceeded  a  no  less  remarkable 
evolution  of  subject-matter  and  content.  With 
the  new  times  have  come  new  ideas,  new  manners, 
and,  above  all,  new  morals.  The  actual  subject- 
matter  of  the  drama,  a  true  function  of  civiliza- 
tion, has  taken  the  very  hue  and  tone  of  the  age 
in  which  we  live.  The  modern  era,  with  its  level- 
ing democracy,  its  social  accent,  its  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  affairs  of  the  average  man,  its  dis- 
covery of  the  miracle  of  the  commonplace,  has 
ushered  into  the  drama  an  entirely  new  range  of 
subjects.  The  stage,  as  About  aptly  puts  it,  is 
"  a  magnifying  mirror,  in  which  are  reflected  the 

253 


254.  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

passions,  the  vices,  the  folHes  of  each  epoch."  In 
a  deeper  sense,  the  drama  is  not  only  the  mirror 
which  reflects :  it  is  itself  the  image  of  the  time,  of 
the  philosophical,  social,  political,  and  religious 
aspirations  of  the  epoch. 

The  era  of  democracy  demands  the  drama  in 
which  every-day  life  shall  be  universally  accepted 
as  the  normal  dramatic  material.  If  we  glance 
back  at  the  historical  evolution  of  the  modem 
types  of  both  comedy  and  tragedy,  we  shall  dis- 
cover once  again  the  dead  hand  of  Aristotle  re- 
tarding the  free  experimental  evolution  of  the 
drama.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  tragedy  was  re- 
stricted to  the  lives  and  careers  of  princes ;  and 
when,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  Aristotle's  Poetics 
first  began  to  exert  an  important  influence  in 
English  literature,  the  medicTval  restriction  was 
only  further  re-inforced.  Tragedy,  according 
to  Aristotle,  is  the  imitation  of  a  serious 
action;  and  this  dictum  was  freely  interpreted 
to  apply  not  only  to  treatment  but  to  subject- 
matter.  An  action,  in  this  view,  could  only 
mean  one  dealing  with  the  illustrious;  and  tha 
illustrious,  before  the  days  of  democracy,  could 
only  mean  those  of  exalted  social  rank.  The 
personages  and  events  treated  were  wholly 
aristocratic  in  character ;  nobility  of  char- 
acter was  identified — or  rather,  confused — with 
nobility  of  rank.     Great  events  were  universally 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  255 

associated  with  personages  of  high  station. 
"  Tragedy,"  as  Puttenham  quaintly  phrased  it, 
"  deals  with  doleful  falls  of  unfortunate  and  af- 
flicted princes,  for  the  purpose  of  reminding  men 
of  the  mutability  of  fortune  and  of  God's  just 
punishment  of  a  vicious  life." 

Though  Lessing  may  have  felt  that  Othello, 
Timon,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  marked  the  transi- 
tion in  England  in  the  direction  of  treatment  of 
the  bourgeois,  modern  criticism  has  made  it  abun- 
dantly clear  that  Shakespeare  had  neither  sym- 
pathy for  popular  rights  nor  any  adequate  com- 
prehension of  republicanism.  It  is  quite  true  that 
Shakespeare  frequently  satirizes  courtiers  and 
mocks  at  the  trappings  of  royalty;  but  at  bottom 
he  was  thoroughly  aristocratic  in  his  sympathies. 
The  fact  that  the  vast  majority  of  the  characters 
in  Shakespeare's  plays  belong  to  the  aristocracy 
or  to  the  leisured  classes  speaks  for  itself.  And 
the  presumption  that  Shakespeare  was  only  a 
conscientious  realist  in  his  ruthless  depiction  of 
the  common  people  does  not  suffice  to  explain 
away  his  patent  distaste  for  democracy  and  his 
lack  of  sympathy  for  the  democrat.  In  Whitman's 
view,  Shakespeare  was  pre-eminently  the  poet  of 
courts  and  princes.  Brandes  acutely  analyzes 
Shakespeare's  attitude  in  the  misrepresentation  of 
the  cause  of  Jack  Cade,  the  memorable  omission  of 
the  granting  of  Magna  Charta,  which  history  to- 


256  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

day  pronounces  the  most  significant  historical 
event  of  King  John's  reign,  and  the  distortion 
of  the  ideas  of  popular  liberty  in  the  Roman  plays. 
The  late  Ernest  Crosby  ably  demonstrated  Shake- 
speare's contemptuous  indifference  toward  the 
feelings  and  aspirations  of  the  middle  classes.  The 
true  transit  of  popular  idealism  is  found  first  in 
George  Lillo's  George  Barnwell,  or  the  London 
Merchant  (1713),  a  momentous  departure  which 
left  its  direct  impress  upon  European,  notably 
French  and  German,  drama  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. The  clue  to  the  predominant  influence  of 
the  bourgeois  drama  of  to-day,  from  Ibsen  and 
Bjornson  to  Galsworthy  and  Shaw,  is  found  in 
the  prophetic  words  of  Lillo  in  his  dedication  to 
The  London  Merchant:  "What  I  would  infer  is 
this,  I  think,  evident  truth;  that  tragedy  is  so  far 
from  losing  its  dignity,  by  being  accommodated  to 
the  circumstances  of  the  generality  of  mankind, 
that  it  is  more  truly  august  in  proportion  to  the 
extent  of  its  influence,  and  the  numbers  that  are 
properly  aff'ected  by  it.  As  it  is  more  truly  great 
to  be  the  instrument  of  good  to  many,  who  stand 
in  need  of  our  assistance,  than  to  a  very  small  part 
of  that  number."  This  new  type  of  drama,  which 
found  its  forerunners  in  The  Yorkshire  Tragedy 
and  The  London  Prodigal,  soon  gained  adherents 
on  the  Continent  among  working  dramatists  im- 
pressed by  the  fecundity  underlying  the  concep- 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  257 

tion  of  what  Goldsmith  contemptuously  described 
as  "  tradesmen's  tragedies."  In  Germany,  Les- 
sing  modeled  his  Miss  Sara  Sampson  (1755)  di- 
rectly on  Lillo's  type  form  of  the  domestic  trag- 
edy; whilst  in  France  Diderot,  stimulated  by  Lil- 
lo's "  tale  of  private  woe,"  brought  out  in  rapid 
succession  his  Le  Fils  Naturel  (1757)  and  Le  Fere 
de  Famille  (1758).  The  influence  upon  Euro- 
pean literature  was  bifurcative.  In  France  the 
national  genius  found  characteristic  expression  in 
domestic  comedy,  and  the  sentimental  or  larmoyant 
comedy,  of  Diderot,  Sedaine,  Mercicr,  and  Beau- 
marchais.  In  Germany,  Schiller  followed  the  new 
path  of  domestic  tragedy  in  Kahale  und  Liebe 
(1784),  only  later  to  prove  recusant;  but  the  suc- 
cess of  Iffland  and  the  tremendous  popularity  of 
Kotzebue,  mechanical  and  cheap  as  were  their  melo- 
dramatic exploitations  of  domestic  themes,  gave 
continued  vogue  to  the  type,  in  England  as  well  as 
in  Europe. 

So  momentous  and  so  universal  has  been  the  in- 
fluence of  the  democratic  spirit  in  the  drama,  so 
intimately  is  the  development  of  the  contemporary 
drama  implicated  in  the  evolution  of  contempo- 
rary democracy,  that  a  somewhat  closer  survey 
of  the  drama  of  France  and  Germany  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  will  reveal  the  fruitful  germs  which 
fertilized  the  dramatic  spirit  and  temper  of  to- 
day.    In  the  France  of  the  eighteenth  century — 


258  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

familiar  invocation ! — the  aristocracy  steadily 
lost  ground,  while  the  bourgeoisie,  the  third  estate, 
as  steadily  encroached  upon  this  ground,  gaining 
thereby  a  new  class-consciousness,  a  sharply 
quickened  sense  of  social  riglits.  Voltaire,  a  pro- 
nounced opponent  of  bourgeois  tragedy,  was  a 
true  descendant  of  Moliere  in  advocating  the  de- 
sirability of  making  honest  folks  laugh.  The  lar- 
moyant  comedy,  which  Voltaire  found  so  admir- 
able, begins  with  no  true  recognition  of  class-con- 
sciousness. It  was  restricted  to  the  sentiments 
and  passions  of  contemporary  life,  less  violent  and 
excessive  than  those  of  classic  tragedy  because 
conformed  to  modern  civilization  through  the  nor- 
malizing influences  of  education  and  social  custom. 
As  neatly  put  by  Riccoboni,  there  are  persons  of 
respectable,  even  gentle  birth  not  lofty  enough  in 
station  to  wear  the  cotluirnus  of  the  tragic  hero, 
but  too  lofty  to  enter  into  the  domestic  situations 
traditionally  limited  to  comedy ;  and  it  was  these 
persons  who  furnished  the  material  for  the  new 
dramatic  type,  partaking  of  the  interest  of  trag- 
edy, yet  preserving  the  character  of  comedy  and 
dealing  with  the  situations  of  domestic  and  civil 
life.  W^ith  the  iconoclastic  spirit  worthy  of  a 
Barker  or  a  Shaw,  Diderot  declared  that  nothing 
which  happened  in  real  life  might  not  be  shown 
on  the  stage !  It  is  not  wholly  to  be  regretted 
that    his    practice    failed    to    fulfil   the    alarming 


I 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  259 

promise  advanced  in  his  theory.  For  Diderot 
really  wrote,  not  the  true  drama  of  middle-class 
concern,  but  more  or  less  artificial  studies  of 
certain  social  conditions  and  of  people  of  a 
certain  social  standing.  The  outcome  of  his 
drama  is  not  the  inevitable  consequence  of  its 
own  social  data,  but  a  "  solution "  dexterously 
devised  by  the  author.  In  a  very  genuine 
sense,  however,  Diderot  was  the  father  of  mod- 
ern realism;  for  he  explicitly  maintained  in 
so  many  words  that  the  drama  of  the  future  must 
abjure  the  pompous,  stylicized  language  of  verse 
and  utilize  the  supple,  natural  prose  of  every-day 
life.  He  may  be  said  to  have  anticipated  Ibsen 
in  aiming  to  create  the  perfect  illusion  of  reality, 
so  that  the  spectator  would  feel  that  he  was  him- 
self not  only  a  spectator,  but  actually  a  partici- 
pant in  the  dramatic  action. 

Mercier  went  a  step  further  than  Diderot  as  an 
exponent  of  middle-class  drama,  exhibiting  the 
bourgeoisie  in  one  characteristic  and  fundamen- 
tal aspect,  viz.  as  an  industrial  class.  While  Mer- 
cier advances  beyond  Diderot,  in  reflecting  the 
deepened  sense  of  middle-class  consciousness,  he 
nevertheless  fails  in  his  dramas  to  exhibit  social 
forces  as  the  controlling  factors  in  the  action.  It 
was  a  grave  error  to  write  dramas  which  did  not 
truly  reflect  actual  conditions,  but  served  prin- 
cipally as  justifications,  vindications  of  the  social 


260  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

ideals  of  the  bourgeoisie.  The  creator  of  the  bour- 
geois drama  in  France  is  Sedaine;  and  his  Le 
Philosophe  sans  le  Savoir  portrays  artificial  so- 
cial convention  in  mortal  conflict  with  instinctive 
human  feeling.  With  all  his  imperfections  as  a 
dramatist,  Sedaine  is  the  forerunner  of  the  social 
dramatist  of  to-day,  who  paints  the  true  conflict 
of  modem  life  as  the  struggle  of  humanity  against 
the  hampering  restrictions  of  convention  and  the 
oppressive  influence  of  institutionalism. 

The  France  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  aris- 
tocratic and  absolutist;  and  literature  served  but 
as  a  reflection  of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  For  de- 
spite the  rising  of  the  tide  of  democracy,  art  re- 
mained aristocratic  in  tone ;  and  France  continued 
to  regard  herself  as  the  aristocrat  of  European 
literature  and  so,  obligated  to  conserve  the  classic 
esthetic  standards  of  decorum,  of  form,  of  taste. 
In  Germany,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spirit  of  na- 
tional culture  was  essentially  democratic  in  its 
aspiration.  The  bourgeoisie  gradually  organized 
itself  into  a  compact  body  of  democratic  tenden- 
cies, with  a  consequent  development  of  the  spirit 
of  class-consciousness  and  the  sentiment  of  com- 
mon aims.  The  repression  of  the  individual,  ex- 
ercised by  the  numerous  petty  courts  of  soi-disant 
kingdoms,  aroused  to  revolt  the  mass-conscious- 
ness of  the  people,  and  gradually  evoked  clamant 
expression  of  the  spirit  of  the  modem  era.    A  re- 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  261 

generative  spirit,  the  active  moral  sympathy  im- 
plicit in  Lessing's  Miss  Sara  Sampson,  sank  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  the  people.  For  herein  they 
recognized  the  epitome  of  their  own  awakening, 
not  yet  wholly  aroused,  class-consciousness.  It 
deserves  to  rank,  on  this  score,  as  the  first  German 
drama  fundamentally  social  in  character.  The 
true  herald  of  Ibsen  and  the  modern  school  is, 
however,  not  Lessing,  but  Hebbel,  the  author  of 
the  "  little  family  picture,"  as  he  entitled  it, 
Maria  Magdalena..  Indeed  Ibsen  once  expressed 
his  astonishment  over  the  noteworthy  recognition 
of  his  o)\Ti  dramas  in  Germany,  a  country  in  which 
Friedrich  Hebbel  had  preceded  him.  Yet  after 
all,  it  is  not  so  strange — since  Hebbel's  Maria  Mag- 
dalena, for  example,  is  much  too  restricted  in  its 
field  to  constitute  an  image  of  modern  society.  It 
is  just  as  well  that  Hebbel  soon  abandoned  bour- 
geois tragedy ;  for  he  labored  under  the  strange 
delusion  that  the  limitations  and  restrictions 
peculiar  to  the  narrowing  conditions  of  middle- 
class  life  give  rise,  not  to  the  tragic,  but  only  to 
the  pathetic.  He  maintained  that  the  bourgeois 
type  must  be  studied  from  within  in  order  to  em- 
phasize the  unique  and  particular  characteristics 
of  middle-class  life:  "the  rigid  exclusiveness  with 
which  the  individuals,  wholly  incapable  of  dialec- 
tics, stand  opposed  to  one  another  in  the  restricted 


THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

sphere,  and  their  consequent  horrible  enslavement 
to  an  existence  of  arrested  development."  To- 
day, we  acknowledge  that  it  is  to  the  lower  classes, 
rather  than  to  the  middle  classes,  that  Hebbel's 
dictum  is  truly  pertinent. 

It  was  reserved  for  the  contemporary  natural- 
ists, Hauptmann  and  his  successors,  to  realize  the 
tragedy  of  middle-class  and  lower-class  life  par- 
tially envisaged  by  Hebbel.  I  know  no  more  just 
epitome  of  Hebbel's  words,  above  quoted,  than 
Hauptmann's  Fuhrmann  Henschel.  And  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  Spitta's  dramaturgic  code,  as 
reflected  in  the  diatribe  of  Hassenreuter  in  Haupt- 
mann's Die  Ratten,  sums  up  in  briefest  compass 
the  spirit  of  contemporary  dramaturgy: 

Hassenreuter. 

"  You  deny  the  whole  art  of  elocution,  the 
value  of  the  voice  in  acting!  You  want  to  sub- 
stitute for  both  the  art  of  toneless  speaking! 
Further  you  deny  the  importance  of  action  in  the 
drama  and  assert  it  to  be  a  worthless  accident,  a 
sop  for  the  groundlings !  You  deny  the  validity 
of  poetic  justice,  of  guilt  and  its  necessary  expia- 
tion. You  call  all  that  a  vulgar  invention — an 
assertion  by  means  of  which  the  whole  moral  order 
of  the  world  is  abrogated  by  the  learned  and 
crooked  understanding  of  your  single  magnificent 
self!     Of  the    heights    of    humanity    you    know 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  263 

nothing!  You  asserted  the  other  day  that,  in 
certain  circumstances,  a  barber  or  a  scrubwoman 
might  as  fittingly  be  the  protagonist  of  a  tragedy 
as  Lady  Macbeth  or  King  Lear ! 

Spitta. 

{Still  pale,  polishing  Ms  spectacles.)  Before  art 
as  before  the  law  all  men  are  equal,  sir. 

It  was  Ibsen  and  Bjornson  who  first  made  true 
tragedies  of  middle-class  life — the  tragedies  of  the 
"  barber  and  the  scrubwoman,"  the  doctor  and  the 
photographer,  the  banker  and  the  politician. 
Then  for  the  first  time  in  history  the  bourgeois 
drama  began  to  present  a  serious  study  of  the  in- 
dividual as  citizen,  bound  in  a  league  of  com- 
mon interest  with  his  fellows  and  of  true  obliga- 
tions to  society.  The  rise  of  the  bourgeois  drama 
in  the  nineteenth  century  marks  the  true  trans- 
valuation  in  modern  social  philosophy.  The  com- 
mon weal  became  the  new  social  standard  of  valua- 
tion. It  was  not  types  as  types,  or  classes  as 
classes,  that  Ibsen  treated:  he  studied  individuals 
as  corporate  exponents  of  contemporary  ideas. 
Ibsen's  genuine  social  significance  inheres  in  his 
practice  of  studying  middle-class  society  on  its 
own  plane,  but  in  terms  of  the  highest  thought, 
the  deepest  consciousness,  of  our  epoch.  He  vital- 
ized thought  into  action ;  impersonated  social 
thought  in  humanity.     Von  Sonnenfels  once  said, 


264  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

in  speaking  of  this  democratization  of  the  the- 
ater, that  whereas  lofty  classic  tragedy  concerns 
itself  with  the  interests  of  a  comparatively  limited 
class,  numerically,  the  middle-class  tragedy  con- 
cerns itself  with  the  interests  of  the  entire  human 
race.  Ibsen  subtilized  the  topical  into  the  eternal, 
the  specific  into  the  universal. 

The  contemporary  drama  of  middle-class  exist- 
ence, to  employ  a  happy  phrase  of  George  Eliot's, 
is  nothing  more  than  a  "  scene  from  private  life." 
Ibsen's  Little  Eyolf  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be 
a  typical  specimen  of  the  modern  domestic  play, 
exposing  the  "  skeleton  in  the  closet "  and  de- 
nuding the  "  secrets  of  the  alcove."  Admirable 
illustrations  of  the  bourgeois  drama,  by  dramatists 
of  different  nationalities,  are:  the  masterpiece  of 
Sudermann,  Heiinat,  the  very  title  of  which  sug- 
gests the  domestic  scene ;  Giacosa's  Come  le  Foglie, 
that  subtle  analysis  of  the  moral  enervation  con- 
sequent upon  the  irresponsible  possession  of  un- 
earned wealth;  Barker's  detailed  and  microscopic 
study  of  an  English  family.  The  Voysey  lu'- 
heritance.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  influence 
of  the  first  truly  realistic  novels,  dealing  with 
the  affairs  of  people  quite  commonplace  in 
every  respect,  save  that  of  human  interest 
and  passion,  gradually  made  itself  felt  in  the 
domain  of  the  drama.  The  author  of  Pamela 
and    Clarissa    Harlowe    was    a    virtual    contem- 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  265 

porary  of  the  author  of  George  Barnwell,  or 
the  London  Merchant.  And  whilst  Lillo  ex- 
erted a  powerful  direct  influence  upon  the  drama, 
Richardson  with  his  pedestrian  realism  and  middle- 
class  preoccupations  exercised  upon  modem  drama 
an  indirect  influence  well-nigh  as  powerful,  though 
far  less  immediate  and  obvious.  Here  were  all 
the  marks  of  the  contemporary  drama  as  we  know 
it,  though  blurred  by  the  meticulous  elaboration 
of  Richardson,  the  boisterous  vulgarity  of  Field- 
ing, the  sentimental  confessional  of  Rousseau. 
These  works  of  realistic  fiction  deal  with  ordinary 
people  concerned  in  the  affairs  of  ordinary  daily 
life ;  they  are  devoted  to  a  faithful  representation, 
without  romantic  sophistication  or  idealization, 
of  the  actualities  of  life  and  character ;  and  their 
chief  interest  consists  in  a  minute  analysis  of  char- 
acter, delineation  of  motive,  and  reflection  of  the 
secret  springs  of  the  actions  of  the  average  human 
being.  These  are  the  conspicuous  and  character- 
istic features  of  the  middle-class  drama  of  our  own 
time.  To-day,  that  "  literature  of  the  center," 
of  which  Matthew  Arnold  spoke,  seems  to  be  yield- 
ing place  more  and  more  to  what  may  be  termed 
the  literature  of  the  circumference.  The  charge 
triumphantly  urged  against  Ibsen  by  the  "old 
guard"  in  literature  was  that  he  is  provincial, 
parochial,  suburban;  that  he  deals  with  ordinary 
common  people  in  average  daily  life ;  that  he  has 


^66  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

definitively  doffed  the  purple  pall  of  tragedy.  In 
this  assertion  inheres  the  secret  of  Ibsen's  dis- 
tinction, the  note  of  his  social  dramas  of  modern 
life.  As  Bernard  Shaw  effectively  says :  "  Sub- 
urbanity  at  present  means  modern  civilization. 
The  active,  germinating  life  in  the  households  of 
to-day  cannot  be  typified  by  an  aristocratic  hero, 
an  ingenuous  heroine,  a  gentleman  forger  abetted 
by  an  Artful  Dodger,  and  a  parlor  maid  who  takes 
half-sovereigns  and  kisses  from  the  male  visitors. 
Such  interiors  exist  on  the  stage  and  nowhere 
else.  .  .  .  But  if  you  ask  me  where  you  can 
find  the  Helmer  household,  the  Allmers  house- 
hold, the  Solness  household,  the  Rosmer  house- 
hold, and  all  the  other  Ibsen  households,  I  reply, 
*  Jump  out  of  a  train  anywhere  between  Wimble- 
don and  Haslemere,  walk  into  the  first  villa  you 
come  to,  and  there  you  are.  .  .  .  This  subur- 
ban life,  except  in  so  far  as  it  is  totally  vegetable 
and  undramatic,  is  the  life  depicted  by  Ibsen. 
Doubtless  some  of  our  critics  are  quite  sincere  in 
thinking  it  a  vulgar  life,  in  considering  the  con- 
versations which  men  hold  with  their  wives  in  it 
improper,  in  finding  its  psychology  puzzling  and 
unfamiliar,  and  in  forgetting  that  its  bookshelves 
and  its  music  cabinets  are  laden  with  works  which 
did  not  exist  for  them,  and  which  are  the  daily 
bread  of  young  women  educated  very  differently 
from  the  sisters  and  wives  of  their  day.     No  won- 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  267 

der  they  are  not  at  ease  in  an  atmosphere  of  ideas 
and  assumptions  and  attitudes  which  seem  to  them 
bewildering',  morbid,  affected,  extravagant,  and 
altogether  incredible  as  the  common  currency  of 
suburban  life.  But  Ibsen  knows  better.  His  sub- 
urban drama  is  the  inevitable  outcome  of  a  subur- 
ban civilization  (meaning  a  civilization  that  ap- 
preciates fresh  air)  :  and  the  true  explanation  of 
Hedda  Gabler's  vogue  is  that  given  by  Mr.  Grant 
Allen :  '  I  take  her  in  to  dinner  twice  a  week.' " 

The  drama  typical  of  our  day  and  time  is  bour- 
geois in  character,  dealing  with  the  thoughts  and 
passions,  the  loves  and  hates,  the  comedies  and 
tragedies,  of  the  sort  of  people  we  meet  every  day 
on  the  street.  They  are  people  with  like  passions 
as  ourselves,  and  the  incidents  of  their  lives  are 
constantly  being  reproduced  around  us.  The 
anecdotes  and  adventures  which  constitute  the  ma- 
terial of  the  earlier  drama  have  lost  their  hold 
upon  the  modern  world  because  they  no  longer 
furnish  us  that  thrill  of  immediate  actuality,  that 
vital  interest  of  contemporaneous  circumstance, 
which  live  only  in  the  atmosphere  of  to-day. 
Nowadays,  we  are  given  a  species  of  family  por- 
trait— the  portrayal  of  a  household  or  a  restricted 
social  set;  and  the  primary  demand  is  that  the 
illusion  of  reality  must  never  be  sacrificed  to  the 
specious  claims  of  mere  theatrical  effectiveness. 
The  error  in  the  earlier  dramatic  criticism  lay  in 


268  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  assumption  that  daily  normal  life  was  strangled 
in  the  coil  of  the  temporal.  Ibsen  and  Bjomson 
centered  the  vast  interests  of  life,  social  sym- 
pathy, individual  passion,  prenatalism  and  pre- 
destination, in  the  restricted  arena  of  domestic 
life.  The  following  words  of  Maeterlinck,  beauti- 
ful as  they  are,  nevertheless  suggest  too  quiescent 
and  static  a  state:  for  even  within  a  small  room, 
chasms  deeper  than  hell  itself  may  yawn ;  and  the 
windows  ever  open  out  upon  the  celestial  blue, 
radiant  of  eternal  hope  and  mystic  with  the  breath 
of  infinity.  "  Consider  the  drama  that  actually 
stands  for  the  reality  of  our  time,  as  Greek  drama 
stood  for  Greek  reality,  and  the  drama  of  the 
Renaissance  for  the  reality  of  the  Renaissance. 
Its  scene  is  a  modern  house;  it  passes  between  men 
and  women  of  to-day.  The  names  of  the  invis- 
ible protagonists — the  passions  and  ideas — are  the 
same,  more  or  less,  as  of  old.  We  see  love,  hatred, 
ambition,  jealousy,  envy,  greed;  the  sense  of  jus- 
tice and  idea  of  duty :  pity,  goodness,  devotion, 
piety,  selfishness,  vanity,  pride,  etc.  But,  al- 
though the  names  have  remained  more  or  less  the 
same,  how  great  is  the  difference  we  find  in  the 
aspect  and  quality,  the  extent  and  influence,  of 
these  ideal  actors !  Of  all  their  ancient  weapons, 
not  one  is  left  tliem,  not  one  of  the  marvelous 
moments  of  olden  days.  It  is  seldom  that  cries 
are  heard  now;  bloodshed  is  rare,  and  tears  not 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  269 

often  seen.  It  is  in  a  small  room,  round  a  table, 
close  to  the  fire,  that  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  man- 
kind are  decided.  We  suffer  or  make  others  suffer ; 
we  love,  we  die,  there  in  our  corner;  and  it  were 
the  strangest  chance  should  a  door  or  window  sud- 
denly, for  an  instant,  fly  open  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  extraordinary  despair  or  rejoicing." 

Modern  realism  incisively  tends  to  shatter  the 
romantic  cast  of  life.  The  most  radical  change, 
far-reaching  and  revolutionary,  has  come  about 
as  the  direct  consequence  of  the  suburbanization 
of  the  drama.  This  I  have  chosen  to  describe  as 
the  degeneration  of  the  hero.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  more  contemporaneously  accurate  to  say,  the 
abolition  of  the  hero.  According  to  the  critical 
canons  of  the  past,  the  hero  must  be  a  personage 
of  consideration,  of  distinction — "  an  ideal  char- 
acter in  an  ideal  situation,"  if  I  may  be  permitted 
to  quote  the  ridiculous  phrase.  This  was  the  doc- 
trine of  centuries  distinguished  for  dramatic 
criticism — the  doctrine  of  Corneille,  of  D'Aubig- 
nac,  of  Racine,  of  Voltaire,  of  Dacier,  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney.  In  the  elevated  tragedies  of  the 
past,  the  hero  is  a  personage  above  the  law,  i.e. 
he  functions  without  the  domain  of  prevailing  so- 
cial and  moral  codes.  It  is  not  with  institutions 
that  he  has  to  struggle :  it  is  with  destiny.  This 
hero  towers  aloft  upon  a  pedestal ;  but  that  pedestal 
may  rest  upon  the  curved  backs  of  oppressed  hu- 


270  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

manity.  This  ancient  conception  is  an  esthetic  re- 
flection of  the  aristocratic  regime ;  for  the  classic 
hero  ("  noblesse  oblige  "!)  owes  allegiance  only  to 
his  own  class.  In  his  world  there  is  no  democracy, 
since  there  is  no  sense  of  universal  obligation  to 
the  community. 

To-day,  in  the  light  of  the  sociologic  conception 
of  society  as  an  organism,  a  new  transvaluation  of 
individual  and  social  values  has  transpired.  Down 
to  the  nineteenth  century — the  age  of  Carlyle — the 
individual,  the  hero,  was  supposed  to  exert  a  pre- 
dominant influence  in  the  creation  and  shaping  of 
society.  To-day — the  age  of  Spencer — it  is  so- 
ciety which  predetermines  and  restricts  the  de- 
velopment of  the  individual.  Instead  of  the  hero  of 
the  past  finally  conquering  every  foe,  we  have  to- 
day the  hero  manque,  struggling  with  foredoomed 
futility  against  the  overwhelming  pressure  of  en- 
vironment, the  brand  of  heredity,  the  coil  of  cir- 
cumstance, the  chains  of  character,  the  confining 
mold  of  society,  the  damning  verdict  of  self-mock- 
ery and  self-contempt.  The  protagonist  in  both 
novel  and  drama  has  stepped  down  from  the 
pedestal  of  the  colossal;  he  has  now  "lost  the  last 
gleam  from  the  sunset  of  the  heroes."  "  Dowti  to 
the  time  of  Dickens,"  says  Gilbert  Chesterton, 
"  we  have  the  first  walking  gentleman,  the 
young  man  carrying  with  him  a  certain  ances- 
tral light  and  atmosphere  of  legend.     And,  about 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  £71 

the  time  of  Dickens's  later  work,  that  light  fades 
into  the  light  of  common  day.  The  first  great 
creation  of  the  new  manner  in  England  is  the  char- 
acter of  Arthur  Pendcnnis.  This  is  the  young 
man  lit  from  head  to  foot  suddenly  with  the  white 
light  of  realism,  all  the  red  lamps  of  legend  being 
extinguished  around  him." 

In  the  drama  of  to-day,  the  leading  male  char- 
acter— it  would  be  profoundly  absurd  to  dignify 
him  with  the  title  of  "  hero  " —  is  often  little  ele- 
vated above  the  level  of  the  commonplace,  and 
in  many  cases  is  little  more  or  less  than  a  fraud, 
an  impostor,  a  bounder,  a  cad,  an  exemplar  of  the 
higher  rascality  or  the  new  immorality.  In  the 
Dramatic  Review  (May  30,  1885),  Wilde  char- 
acteristically wrote :  "  Perfect  heroes  are  the  mon- 
sters of  melodramas,  and  have  no  place  in  dramatic 
art.  Life  possibly  contains  them,  but  Parnassus 
often  rejects  what  Peckham  may  welcome."  A 
vein  of  real  prophecy,  in  anticipation  of  the  Alias 
Jimmy  Valentine  and  Raffles  of  to-day,  crops  out 
in  his  added  remark :  "  I  look  forward  to  a  reac- 
tion in  favor  of  the  cultured  criminal."  The 
moral  predisposition  of  the  contemporary  dram- 
atist often  makes  the  protagonist  a  ridiculous, 
a  pitiable,  or  even  a  sinister  figure,  satirizing  him- 
self by  outraging  the  conscience  of  the  spectator 
every  time  he  does  his  "  duty."  In  a  profound 
sense,  Hamlet  is  a  foreshadowing  of  the  protago- 


272  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

nist  of  ultra-modern  drama;  and  in  another  gen- 
eration, perhaps,  dissatisfaction  with  conventional 
morality,  tempered  by  educational  improvement 
in  ethical  standards,  may  give  place  to  individual 
moral  assertiveness  and  dignity  in  the  domain  of 
the  new-heroic.  Nora  swings  too  far  away  from 
Helmer,  Dr.  Stockman  from  his  brother  Peter, 
Marchbanks  from  Morell,  Tanner  from  Rams- 
den  ;  the  contrasts  are,  psychologically,  almost 
grotesque.  Obsessed  by  polemical  intent  and  re- 
formatory zeal,  the  modern  dramatist  has  charged 
his  product  with  mordant  comic  and  tragic  irony. 
The  rise  of  modern  feminism  has  contributed  in 
no  small  measure  to  demote  man  from  his  posi- 
tion of  vaunted  superiority  as  a  heroic  figure. 
Such  plays  as  Mr.  W.  C.  DeMille's  The  Woman 
and  Mr.  George  Middleton's  Nowadays  give  us 
a  strong  sense  of  the  new  domain  of  woman.  The 
protagonist  in  the  contemporary  drama  has  lost 
his  poise  through  the  violence  of  his  reaction 
against  social  injustice ;  or  become  a  lay  figure,  the 
dialectic  automaton  for  the  expression  of  social 
theory.  Always  we  tend  to  see  man  nowadays  from 
the  blasting  point  of  view  of  the  modern  woman, 
catching  "  glimpse  after  glimpse  of  himself  from 
this  point  of  view  himself,  as  all  men  are  beginning 
to  do  more  or  less  now,  the  result,  of  course,  being 
the  most  horrible  dubiety  on  his  part  as  to  whether 
he  is  really  a  brave  and  chivalrous  gentleman  or 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  273 

a  humbug  and  a  moral  coward."  Only  in  a  highly 
developed  society — a  society  where  women  are 
placed  upon  an  equal  footing  with  men,  as  Mere- 
dith puts  it — can  comedy  of  the  highest  type 
flourish.  And  if  I  were  to  venture  a  prophecy,  I 
should  predict  that  the  drama  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury will  exhibit  two  main  streams  of  tendency. 
The  one  will  present  woman's  struggle  to  effect 
sane  adjustments  within  her  new  and  progressively 
enlarging  freedom ;  the  other  will  present  man's 
struggle  to  realize  his  potentiality  and  limita- 
tion in  the  light  of  the  newer  social  communism. 

And  yet  we  must  not  forget,  as  Spitta  said,  that 
the  great  contribution  of  the  new  dramatist  has 
been  the  demonstration  that  "  a  barber  or  a  scrub- 
woman could  as  fitly  be  the  subject  of  tragedy 
as  Lady  Macbeth  or  King  Lear."  A  great  gulf 
has  been  fixed  between  aristocratic  estheticism  and 
democratic  humanism.  How  antiquated  sound  the 
words  of  Courtney :  "  There  may  be  tragedies  in 
South  Hampstead,  although  experience  does  not 
consistently  testify  to  the  fact ;  but  at  all  events, 
from  the  historic  and  traditional  standpoint, 
tragedy  is  more  likely  to  concern  itself  with 
Glamys  Castle,  Melrose  Abbey,  Carisbrook,  or 
even  with  Carlton  House  Terrace."  How  anti- 
quated! — in  face  of  Hauptmann's  noble  saying: 
"  Before  art  as  before  the  law  all  men  are  equal." 

The  hope  for  the  individual  hero  of  the  drama 


274)  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

of  the  future  lies  in  the  domain  of  moral  psychol- 
ogy,— or  shall  we  say,  ethics?  In  speaking  of  the 
protagonist  of  contemporary  drama,  tlie  unsym- 
pathetic Courtney  has  observed  :  "  Instead  of 
being  a  nobleman,  or  at  least  distinguished,  he  has 
become  merely  bourgeois ;  instead  of  knowing  that 
whatever  he  suffers  is  accurately  proportioned  to 
his  guilt,  and  that  he  is  the  victim  of  poetic  jus- 
tice, he  has  become  lost  in  mazes  of  indiscrimi- 
nate action,  succeeding  and  failing,  he  knows  not 
why,  subject  to  the  most  marvelous  coincidences, 
'  a  foiled,  circuitous  wanderer '  in  an  unreasonable 
world."  The  modern  "hero"  is  a  failure,  as  I 
see  it,  because  he  is  frustrated  on  every  hand  by 
the  savage  irony  of  relentless  fact — the  insuffi- 
ciency of  his  moral  code,  the  mockery  of  his  intro- 
spection, the  discrepancy  between  deductions  and 
facts,  callous  popular  indifference  to  social  evil, 
the  lethargy  of  civic  conscience,  the  weakening  of 
religious  influence,  the  bankruptcy  of  theology, 
the  consuming  curse  of  materialism,  the  irresist- 
ible pressure  of  the  biological  and  the  social  or- 
ganisms. Perhaps  this  degenerescence  of  mascu- 
line heroism  partially  serves  to  explain  why  it  is 
that  the  truly  heroic  roles  in  contemporary  drama 
are  so  often  played  by  women.  In  drama,  as  in 
novel  and  short-story,  we  may  well  look  happily 
forward  with  Chesterton  to  the  future  work  of 
genius  which  shall  project  against   a  skyline  of 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  275 

infinity  "  a  psychological  Hercules,"  and  "  show 
us  that  there  is  potentially  a  rejection  for  every 
temptation,  a  mastery  for  every  mischance,  much 
as  there  is  a  parry  for  every  stroke  of  the  sword." 
Not  only  is  the  hero  shorn  of  his  ancient  attri- 
butes, in  modern  drama;  he  is  actually  robbed  of 
all  the  accessories  which  once  went  so  far  toward 
creatine:  the  illusion  of  heroism.  The  hero  of 
romance  accomplished  miracles,  performing  im- 
possible and  unheard-of  deeds  of  skill  and 
daring;  and  he  always  spoke  in  the  language 
befitting  his  station  and  his  achievements.  He 
lived  in  a  world  of  romance  and  of  dreams ; 
and  man  fled  to  the  theater  to  breathe  this 
intoxicating  ozone  for  one  brief  hour,  forget- 
ful of  the  cares  of  the  morrow,  oblivious  of  every 
reminder  of  the  real  world.  And  so,  when  the  spec- 
tator was  swept  away  to  this  airy  dreamland 
upon  the  sea-coasts  of  Bohemian  fancy,  he  reveled 
in  the  elevated,  poetic,  sublime  speech  of  a  race 
more  heroic,  more  lofty,  than  the  race  of  mortals. 
But  to-day,  suburban  realism  alas !  has  changed 
all  that.  No  longer  do  we  "  hear  the  Scythian 
Tamburlain  threatening  the  world  with  high 
astounding  terms."  The  protagonist  of  the 
modern  drama  is  taken  alive  from  the  midst  of 
modern  life;  his  actions  and  his  mode  of  expres- 
sion are  alike  typical  of  this  unromantic  and  un- 
heroic  age  in  which  we  live.    Yet,  after  all,  where 


276  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

is  the  man  "  with  soul  so  dead  "  as  to  deny  the 
existence  of  true  heroism  in  modern  life,  the  age 
of  Peary  and  Scott,  of  Orville  and  Wilbur  Wright, 
of  the  Titanic  disaster — and  of  the  Carnegie  Hero 
Medal?  It  would  appear,  at  times,  as  if  there 
were  an  economic  and  socialistic  basis  for  the  rise 
of  the  bourgeois  drama.  For  is  it  not  the  captain 
of  industry,  the  commercial  colossus,  often  over- 
riding principles  of  justice  and  flouting  the  mech- 
anism of  human  laws,  rather  than  any  con- 
stitutional or  despotic  ruler,  who  is,  if  there  be 
any,  the  "  hero  " — i.e.  the  dominant,  masterly 
protagonist  in  the  drama  of  contemporary  life.'* 
A  Cecil  Rhodes  lived  more  vital  dramas  than  were 
devised  by  Ibsen  or  Bjornson — was  a  more  im- 
perial expansionist,  a  more  impressive  personality, 
than  perhaps  any  sovereign  of  his  day. 

There  will  be  a  transvaluation  of  values,  from 
time  to  time,  which,  I  dare  say,  will  eventuate  in 
the  successive  re-handling  of  the  heroes  of  classical 
antiquity,  and  in  general,  of  the  past.  It  is  com- 
ing to  be  recognized  that  Mommsen  and  Ferrero 
have  reconstituted  ancient  Rome  and  realized  the 
Roman  "  liero  "  more  accurately  and  more  con- 
vincingly than  did  ever  Shakespeare,  or  even  Plu- 
tarch. Forbes-Robertson  gently  asks :  "  Why 
should  the  hero  of  classical  antiquity  always  be 
thought  of  as  strutting  round  with  arm  extended, 
indulging  in  bombastic  rant  and  spouting  a  lot  of 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  877 

blank  verse?  "  Building  upon  the  basis  of  vast  and 
far-reaching  historical  researches,  the  future  dram- 
atist promises  to  re-interpret  the  past,  in  real- 
istic treatment  and  in  the  prose  form.  The  epic 
spirit  is  dead — slain  by  reality.  The  day  of  spec- 
tacular, heroic,  external  action  seems  to  be  wan- 
ing. The  modern  drama  is  marked  by  that  creep- 
ing paralysis  of  external  action  of  which  Maeter- 
linck speaks.  The  interpreter  of  contemporary 
life  has  discovered  that  an  emotion  is  as  thrilling  a 
dramatic  theme  as  an  action ;  and  that  passion  is 
as  deep  and  vital  in  its  repression  as  in  its  exhibi- 
tion. To-day,  the  protagonist  is  profoundly  con- 
cerned with  the  importance  of  the  trivial ;  and  his 
language — sometimes  even  his  thought — barely 
suffices  to  elevate  him  above  the  mean  level  of  the 
commonplace.  The  difference  between  the  old  epic 
poets  and  the  modern  realists  is  the  whole  dif- 
ference "  between  an  age  that  fought  with  dragons 
and  an  age  that  fights  with  microbes." 

If  the  dominant  individuality  has  ceased,  in 
great  measure,  to  play  his  heroic,  epic  role  in 
contemporary  drama,  there  is  a  sense  in  which  the 
"  hero "  may  be  said  to  survive.  The  typical 
bourgeois  drama  of  to-day,  the  forerunner  of 
countless  others  cut  after  the  same  pattern,  is 
Ibsen's  An  Enemy  of  the  People,  Back  of  Stock- 
mann  seems  to  loom  a  vast  impersonal  force,  the 
consciousness   of  social  obligation.     We  live  to- 


278  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

day  in  an  era  of  social  democracy.  It  Is  no 
longer  the  individual,  but  the  social  forces  that 
he  represents,  which  constitute  the  dominant  influ- 
ence in  the  higher  dramas  of  our  time.  Ibsen, 
Bjornson,  Brieux,  Hauptmann,  Gorky,  Shaw 
have  accustomed  us  to  the  notion  that  mass-con- 
sciousness, rather  than  individuality,  is  the  most 
impressive,  and  most  pervasive,  influence  of  our 
time.  The  "  hero "  of  Die  Weber  is  no  single 
artisan,  but  the  spirit  of  the  laborers'  strike — the 
dread  cloud  of  want  darkening  the  face  of  the 
sun.  Social  altruism  strikes  the  pitch  of  Little 
Eyolf ;  the  true  protagonist  of  ^  DolVs  House 
is  modern  marriage ;  the  garish,  futile  hopeless- 
ness of  the  submerged  tenth  leers  at  us  from 
The  Night  Shelter.  The  spirit  of  the  Celtic  race, 
the  tragedy  of  fettered  nationalism,  speaks  in 
Sibylline  tones  from  John  BulVs  Other  Island;  not 
Broadbent  and  Doyle,  but  England  and  Ireland, 
are  protagonist  and  antagonist  in  the  death- 
struggle  of  nations.  The  cosmic  "  villain "  of 
Maternite,  of  Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,  is  not 
a  personality,  but  a  force — the  social  evil.  The 
drama  of  to-day  reflects  the  social  consciousness 
of  the  epoch  of  Rousseau,  of  Karl  Marx,  of  So- 
cialism. Society  has  ceased  to  take  itself  for 
granted ;  all  our  efforts,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, are  aimed  at  social  amelioration,  social 
regeneration.      The  artist  of  the  past  gave   the 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  ?79 

name  of  the  hero  to  his  artistic  creation — Ivan- 
hoe,  or  Wallenstein.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
same  motive,  the  modern  artist  names  his  artistic 
creation  after  its  hero — Fecondite,  or  Justice. 
Adverting  to  the  absence  of  any  Individual  hero  in 
his  Sebastopol,  Tolstoy  significantly  insists :  "  But 
the  hero  of  my  story  whom  I  love  with  all  the 
powers  of  my  soul,  whom  I  have  striven  to  repro- 
duce in  all  his  beauty,  and  who  always  has  been, 
is,  and  will  be  beautiful,  is  Truth."  At  the  end 
of  Ibsen's  Pillars  of  Society,  the  spirit  of  truth 
and  freedom  is  pronounced  the  true  hero  of  the 
drama.  The  dread  of  death  and  the  unknown 
which  it  veils  is  the  "  dominant "  in  the  dark 
dramas  of  Andreyev.  In  Peer  Gynt,  Ibsen  has 
given  us  for  hero  the  universal  man,  in  search  of 
his  own  soul.  In  Faust,  Goethe  offers  to  the  world 
a  hero  who  is  nothing  less  than  all  humanity. 

In  still  another  sense,  there  is  a  reason  for  the 
degeneration  of  the  individual  heroic  role.  The 
temper  of  modem  art  is  atmospheric.  The 
modern  drama  has  begun  to  assume  many  of 
the  aspects  of  the  dramatized  short-story.  The 
prime  requisite  of  the  short-story  is  economy  of 
means  In  the  achievement  of  a  predetermined  ef- 
fect. All  the  narrative  lines  are  concurrent,  not 
parallel:  the  interest  is  at  once  cumulative  and 
convergent.  Not  action,  not  character,  is  the 
primary  consideration :  the  predominant  issue  is 


280  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

the  creation  of  a  certain  mood,  a  unity  of  im- 
pression, or  as  Poe  phrased  it,  a  "  totality  of  ef- 
fect." In  dramas,  similar  in  tone  to  the  short- 
story,  there  is  no  individual  hero — since  a  hero 
implies  at  once  overtopping  dominance  of  either 
character  or  action,  or  both.  The  real  "  hero  " 
or  predominant  influence  of  the  drama  may  be  an 
impersonal,  intangible  force  or  emanation,  cast- 
ing over  the  whole  scene  the  glamour  of  its  in- 
fluence or  darkening  the  picture  with  the  shadow 
of  its  sable  wings.  In  characteristic  no-plot 
dramas  of  the  Maeterlinck  of  the  earlier  matter, 
there  is  no  hero,  no  dominant  personality ;  for 
behind  all  the  mimic  show  of  the  material  there 
lurk  the  forces  which  are  immaterial  and  super- 
sensible. In  both  Ulntruse  and  Ulntcrieure, 
which  are  really  treatments  of  the  same  theme 
viewed  from  without  and  within,  the  hero  is  Death. 
In  Strindberg's  remarkable  play,  Wetterleuchten, 
the  very  title  of  the  piece  indicates  that  the  real 
"  hero "  is  no  personality,  but  the  electrically 
charged  atmosphere  of  storm.  The  healing  pity, 
the  saving  grace  of  true  Christianity  might  be 
termed  the  protagonist  of  Hauptmann's  Hannele. 
Not  Uncle  Vanya,  but  the  monotony  of  despair  is 
the  "  hero "  of  Tchekhov's  remarkable  play  of 
that  name.  Without  pressing  the  point,  it  suf- 
fices to  point  out  that  there  is  no  question  here  of 
confusing  the  predominant  force  of  a  drama  with 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  281 

its  mere  setting  or  local  color.  Indeed,  the 
modern  craftsman  has  demonstrated  the  really 
new  principle  that  atmosphere,  mood,  Stimmung, 
may  actually  constitute  the  essential  feature,  the 
predominant  influence  in  a  drama — may  indeed 
constitute  the  drama.  The  short-story,  and  even 
the  novel  exhibit  this  modern  cast  of  thought 
and  esthetic  temper,  no  less  signally  than  the 
drama,  especially  the  one-act  play  or  the  play  of 
intensive  treatment,  designed  for  the  intimate  the- 
ater. In  Poe's  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 
in  Kipling's  They  and  An  Habitation  Enforced, 
the  setting  is  the  protagonist,  the  leading  mo- 
tive— beside  which  all  else  pales. 

The  new  spirit  of  disillusionment  in  modern 
thought,  the  spirit  which  abolishes  the  individual 
hero,  discards  verse  as  a  medium,  and  displaces 
romance  in  favor  of  a  "  scientific  natural  history," 
has  markedly  aff*ected  that  ancient  principle  of 
the  drama,  sovereign  throughout  many  centuries, 
the  principle  of  poetic  justice.  This  time,  as  is 
quite  natural,  we  must  go  to  the  ethicist,  Plato, 
rather  than  to  the  esthetician,  Aristotle,  for  the 
deliberate  promulgation  of  the  doctrine.  In  the 
ideal  commonwealth  of  his  conception,  Plato  logic- 
ally insisted,  in  the  interest  of  law  and  order,  that 
the  good  should  be  rewarded  and  the  wicked  pun- 
ished. Aside  from  this  purely  legal  aspect  of  the 
case,  Plato  as  ethicist  vigorously  held  up  justice 


^82  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

as  the  summum  honum;  and  he  is  speaking  en- 
tirely in  character,  as  a  critic  of  the  arts,  in  his 
Republic  when  he  says  that  poets  and  story- 
tellers "  are  guilty  of  making  the  gravest  mis- 
statements when  they  tell  us  that  wicked  men  are 
often  happy,  and  the  good  miserable ;  and  that 
injustice  is  profitable  when  undetected,  but  that 
justice  is  a  man's  own  loss,  and  another's  gain — 
these  things  we  shall  forbid  them  to  utter,  and 
command  them  to  sing  and  say  the  opposite." 
And  Plato  in  his  Laws  even  goes  so  far  as  to  fore- 
shadow the  more  modern  idea  of  poetic  justice  in 
insisting  that  it  is  the  civic  duty  of  a  poet  to  teach 
that  justice  is  the  source  of  happiness,  and  tliat 
he  whose  wealth  passes  that  of  Midas  and  is  yet 
unjust,  can  only  be  wretched  and  miserable. 

This  conception  of  poetry  as  a  social  force  in 
civilization,  it  must  be  pointed  out,  was  really 
foreign  to  the  theory  of  Aristotle,  who  held  "  that 
poetry  is  an  emotional  delight."  Quinlan  has 
convincingly  shown  that  Aristotle,  in  his  limited 
yet  searching  analysis  of  Athenian  drama,  was 
not  interested  primarily  in  the  question  of  jus- 
tice, but  in  the  artistic  means  by  which  the  emo- 
tions of  pity  and  fear  are  to  be  aroused.  It  is 
abundantly  clear  that  Aristotle  did  not  enunciate 
the  principle  of  poetic  justice  as  a  fundamental 
principle  of  the  drama.  From  his  view  of  the 
tragic  hero  as  a  man  who  suffers  a  reversal  of 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  283 

fortune  not  through  vice,  but  because  of  some 
striking  human  frailty,  ensues  the  logical  conse- 
quence, that  this  virtually  good  man,  instead  of 
being  rewarded,  shall  suffer  shipwreck.  The  idea 
of  a  perfectly  good  man  brought  from  prosperity 
to  adversity,  or  of  a  conspicuously  evil  man  pass- 
ing from  adversity  to  prosperity,  was  equally 
shocking  to  Aristotle  as  a  subject  for  dramatic 
art.  The  principle  of  poetic  justice — "an  op- 
posite catastrophe  for  the  good  and  for  the  bad  " 
— Aristotle  only  grudgingly  accepts  in  a  spirit  of 
concession  to  popular  taste,  while  expressly  stat- 
ing that  a  spectacle  exhibiting  this  principle  does 
not  procure  "  the  true  tragic  pleasure."  With 
that  large  perception  of  human  emotion  in  the 
crowd  which  gives  depth  and  carrying  power  to 
the  Poetics,  Aristotle  is  ready  enough  to  acknowl- 
edge the  human  weakness  we  all  share  in  rejoicing 
over  the  success  of  the  good,  and  taking  a  keen 
satisfaction  in  the  frustration  of  the  evil. 

The  development  of  the  drama  in  Europe  down 
to  the  time  of  Shakespeare  exhibits  steady  evolu- 
tion toward  the  fixation  of  poetic  justice  as  a 
principle  of  the  drama.  In  England,  for  example, 
as  the  result  of  the  Puritan  spirit,  the  ethical 
influence  of  the  drama  as  a  social  institution, 
rather  than  its  fundamental  esthetics,  was  per- 
sistently kept  in  the  foreground ;  and  in  time  the 
critics   and   playwrights,   sensitive   to    this    moral 


284.  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

pressure,  resolved,  as  a  means  of  casting  off  the 
stigma  of  immorality  resting  upon  all  stage  spec- 
tacles, to  approve  and  to  write  only  those  dramas 
which  exhibit  a  symmetrical  disposition  of  re- 
wards and  penalties.  Gascoigne  sub-entitled  The 
Glasse  off  Government,  a  "  tragicoll  comedie  "  for 
a  specific  reason :  "  because  therein  are  handled  as 
well  the  reward  for  virtues  as  also  the  punish- 
ment for  vices  " ;  and  George  Whetstone,  in  tlie 
Dedication  to  his  Historye  of  Promos  and  Cassan- 
dra (1578),  most  quaintly  says:  "  For  by  the  re- 
ward of  the  good  the  good  are  encouraged  in  wel 
doinge — and  with  the  scourge  of  the  lewde  the 
lewde  are  feared  from  evill  attempts :  mainetayn- 
ing  this  my  opinion  with  Platoes  auctority."  In 
a  remarkable  passage  in  his  Apologie  for  Poetrie 
(1581),  Sidney  rather  naively  accepts  as  funda- 
mental the  principle  of  poetic  justice,  which  had 
by  that  time  already  become  traditional.  And 
the  philosophical  foundation  for  the  principle  is 
adequately  laid  by  Bacon  in  his  Advancement  of 
Learning  (1605),  when  he  defines  the  ideal  nature 
of  poetry  in  contrast  to  the  moral  inconclusive- 
ness  of  real  life ;  as  he  finely  sets  it  forth,  wliile 
"  history  propoundcth  the  successes  and  issues  of 
actions  not  so  agreeable  to  the  merits  of  virtue 
and  vice,"  poetry,  which  he  calls  "  feigned  his- 
tory," "feigns  them  more  just  in  retribution  and 
more  according  to  revealed  providence." 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  285 

The  long  conflict  of  the  seventeenth  and  eight- 
eenth centuries  over  the  principle  of  poetic  jus- 
tice— the  wabbling  of  Dryden,  the  restricted  yet 
logical  views  of  the  unconscious  humorist,  Rymer, 
who  but  followed  the  lead  of  Rapin,  the  vaporings 
of  that  ludicrous  extremist,  Dennis,  the  revolt  of 
Addison  against  the  "  ridiculous  doctrine  of 
Modern  Criticism  " — seems  to  the  "  man  in  the 
street  "  of  to-day  to  be  nothing  more  than  a 
"  hurricane  in  a  demi-tasse."  The  true  modern 
note  in  criticism  first  sounds  from  the  "  Great 
Cham  "  of  literature.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  originally 
upheld,  but  later  renounced,  the  principle  of  po- 
etic justice.  In  his  Life  of  Addison,  he  anticipates 
in  some  measure  our  contemporary  attitude  in  the 
words :  "  Whatever  pleasure  there  may  be  in  see- 
ing crimes  punished  and  virtue  rewarded,  yet, 
since  wickedness  often  prospers  in  real  life,  the 
poet  is  certainly  at  liberty  to  give  it  prosperity 
on  the  stage.  For  if  poetry  has  an  imitation  of 
reality,  how  are  its  laws  broken  by  exhibiting  the 
world  in  its  true  form?  The  stage  may  sometimes 
gratify  our  wishes ;  but  if  it  be  truly  '  the  mirror 
of  life,'  it  ought  to  show  us  sometimes  what  we 
are  to  expect." 

To-day,  in  the  light  of  a  thousand  forces  more 
subtle  and  more  profound  than  were  ever  realized 
by  the  critics  of  an  earlier  time,  the  theory  of 
poetic   justice,   in   its   literal   interpretation,   has 


286  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

suffered  a  serious  decline,  if  not  a  complete  eclipse. 
The  contemporary  realist,  drawing  "  the  thing 
as  he  sees  it  "  for  men  and  women  in  a  world  of 
"  things  as  they  are,"  dispassionately  rejects  the 
symmetrical  system  of  rewards  and  punishments, 
in  its  literal  aspects,  recognizing  therein  a  char- 
acteristic symptom  of  the  primitive.  The  doc- 
trine of  poetic  justice  is  as  inhuman  as  its  ancient 
analogue,  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  Persians :  "  an 
eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth."  To-day  we 
accept,  with  all  its  mystery,  its  pity,  and  its  ter- 
ror, "  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth."  It  is 
typical  of  the  modern  spirit  to  face  the  immitigable 
facts  of  life  with  a  certain  firm,  courageous  com- 
posure. We  need  be  neither  pessimists  nor  cynics 
to  share  the  mood  of  Thomas  Hardy:  to  make 
the  most  we  can 

*'0f  what  remains  to  us  amid  this  brake  Cimmerian 
Through  which  we  grope,  and  from 
Whose  thorns  we  ache. 
While  still  we  scan 
Round  our  frail  faltering  progress  for  some  path  or  plan." 

With  vision  no  longer  hallowed  by  the  mirage  of 
romance,  unilluded  by  the  vagaries  of  a  deceptive 
faith,  people  of  to-day  have  come  to  look  un- 
shrinkingly upon  the  garish  facts  of  an  unin- 
telligible world.  Around  us,  upon  all  sides,  we  see 
injustice,  cruel  t}',  unmerited  suffering.  Unto 
the  third  and  fourth  generation  are  the  innocent 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  287 

penalized  for  the  frailty  of  their  fathers ;  the  de- 
terministic pressure  of  social  institutions,  the 
tyranny  of  capital,  the  inertia  of  civic  conscious- 
ness, the  very  constitution  of  society  leave  in  their 
wake  suffering,  injustice,  visiting  alike  upon  the 
good  and  the  evil  inequality  in  the  conditions  of 
living,  poverty,  disease,  and  death.  Outside  the 
organized  instrumentalities  for  the  administra- 
tion of  justice,  we  recognize  in  the  world 
no  intentional  justice.  The  author  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  was  a  true  modern  in  the  recognition 
of  chance  as  a  determinant  of  fate.  In  our 
own  time,  poetic  justice  died  with  Ibsen's  last 
concession  to  the  ancient  theatricality,  in  The 
Pillars  of  Society.  In  the  physical  realm,  the 
connection  between  conduct  and  consequences, 
recognized  by  Ibsen,  Hauptmann,  and  other 
modern  dramatists  who  have  treated  the  physio- 
logical subject  of  heredity,  exists  only  in  the  most 
haphazard,  erratic,  and  purposeless  way.  Hedda 
Gabler  is  Ibsen's  ruthless  answer  to  the  classic 
dogma  that  the  tragedy,  willed  by  "  poetic  jus- 
tice," shall  be  hallowed  by  the  consolations  of 
beauty ;  and  in  The  Wild  Duel:  Relling,  the  high- 
priest  of  disillusionment,  sounds  the  tocsin  of  re- 
volt in  his  memorable  phrase :  "  Life  would  be  quite 
tolerable,  after  all,  if  only  we  could  be  rid  of  the 
confounded  duns  that  keep  on  pestering  us,  in  our 
poverty,  with  the  claim  of  the  ideal." 


288  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

The  outworn  idea  of  poetic  justice  is  yielding 
place  nowadays  to  the  infinitely  more  lofty  ideal 
of  courageous  loyalty  to  the  obligations  of  life. 
Nature  has  no  morality :  death,  as  Weismann 
put  it,  is  only  another  means  of  economizing  life. 
The  poor  are  consoled  for  the  injustice  of  their 
destitute  state  in  this  world  by  the  preacher's  as- 
surance that  they  will  receive  in  the  next  an  ex- 
ceeding great  reward.  But  the  drama,  which 
reflects  life,  is  limited  after  all  to  this  mundane 
sphere ;  and  the  consolations  of  prophecy  avail 
not  to  enable  us  to  meet  the  inevitable  obligations 
of  existence. 

"  Under  the  bludgeonings  of  Chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed " 

that  is  the  true,  high  spirit  of  our  time.  We 
thank  whatever  Gods  may  be  for  our  unconquer- 
able souls — recognizing  that  justice  rests,  not 
upon  any  poetic  principle,  but  within  ourselves. 
We  know  now  that  things  will  not  come  out  right 
in  the  long  run  unless  we  ourselves  labor  to  that 
consummate  end.  Contemporary  literature,  no 
matter  of  what  type,  progressively  exhibits  the 
faith  of  tlie  pragmatic  modern  man  that  we  shall 
create  a  world  where  justice  reigns  only  when  we 
ourselves  shall  embody  that  justice.  The  new- 
content  of  contemporary  life  and  art  is  epito- 
mized in  the  two  words :  Social  conscientiousness. 


THE  NEW  CONTENT  289 

In  the  words  of  a  great  prophet  of  the  new  so- 
cial Ideah'sm  in  art :  "  However  differently  in  form 
people  belonging  to  our  Christian  world  may  de- 
fine the  destiny  of  man ;  whether  they  see  it  in  hu- 
man progress  in  whatever  sense  of  the  words,  in 
the  union  of  all  men  in  a  socialistic  realm,  or  in 
the  establishment  of  a  commune;  whether  they 
look  forward  to  the  union  of  mankind  under  the 
guidance  of  one  universal  Church,  or  to  the  fed- 
eration of  the  world — however  various  in  form 
their  definitions  of  the  destination  of  human  life 
may  be,  all  men  in  our  times  already  admit  that 
the  highest  well-being  attainable  by  men  is  to  be 
reached  by  their  union  with  one  another." 


X 

THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES 

"  The  only  subject-matter  of  the  art  of  the  future  will 
be  either  feelings  drawing  men  towards  union,  or  such 
as  already  unite  them;  and  the  forms  of  art  will  be  such 
as  will  be  open  to  every  one.  And  therefore,  the  ideal  of 
excellence  in  the  future  will  not  be  the  exclusiveness  of 
feeling,  accessible  only  to  some,  but,  on  the  contrary,  its 
universality." — Lyof  Tolstoy. 

As  we  view  in  perspective  the  drama  to-day  in 
Europe,  in  Great  Britain,  and  in  the  United 
States,  we  shall  not  miss  the  significance  of  the 
moment  in  describing  it  as  the  moment  of  experi- 
nientalism.  We  have  witnessed  the  rise  and  de- 
cline of  naturalism,  the  persistence  of  realism  and 
its  final  triumphant  domination  of  the  drama  as  of 
all  other  forms  of  literature,  the  first  groping  ten- 
tatives  of  symbolism  and  mysticism.  The  period 
through  which  we  have  passed  and  the  period 
through  which  we  are  now  passing  are  distin- 
guished by  two  remarkable  traits.  Modern  liter- 
ature is  distinguished  by  evolution  in  form,  revo- 
lution in  spirit.  The  motto  of  the  revolution  may 
be  found  in  Ibsen's  defiant  challenge :  "  My  book 
is  poetry;  and  if  it  is  not  it  will  be."  The  con- 
291 


293  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

temporary  dramatist  boldly  affirms  that  the  con- 
ception of  drama  shall  be  widened,  broadened, 
deepened — shall  be  made  to  conform  to  the  prac- 
tice of  modern  creative  art. 

An  axiom  of  dramatic  criticism  which  has  re- 
mained barren  of  creative  result  in  the  past  is  the 
axiom  that  the  drama  is  the  culminating  synthesis 
of  all  the  arts,  the  esthetic  integration  of  litera- 
ture, music,  painting,  and  sculpture.  The  time  ex- 
planation of  the  sterility  of  this  axiom  is  found 
in  the  neglect  of  the  dramatist  to  recognize  in  the 
sister  arts  anything  more  than  auxiliary,  ancillary 
aids  in  the  fortification  of  emotive,  decorative,  and 
plastic  effects.  In  a  strictly  economic  sense, 
architecture  throughout  all  history  has  exercised 
a  despotic  tyranny  over  creative  individual  gen- 
ius. Investigation  now  persistently  directed  to- 
ward the  drama  as  a  form  of  art  dependent  in 
some  measure  upon  the  physical  exigencies  of  the 
theater  is  a  characteristic  feature  of  contemporary 
dramatic  criticism. 

No  longer  does  the  dramatic  critic  venture  to 
consider  the  drama  solely  as  a  branch  of  litera- 
ture. Modern  research  and  the  spirit  of  con- 
temporary experimentalism  compel  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  drama  as,  in  the  mathematical  sense, 
a  function  of  the  theater.  The  fertile  germs  of 
the  modern  spirit  are  found  in  the  subtle  analysis 
of  Lodovico  Castelvetro,  the  Italian  critic  of  the 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        293 

Renascence,  who  maintained  that  both  the  form 
and  content  of  the  drama  were  conditioned  and 
molded  by  the  architectural  environment  and  the 
immediate  data  of  representation.  The  conclu- 
sions which  he  drew  therefrom  were  imperfect 
and  erroneous;  but  he  anticipated  contemporary 
dramatic  criticism  in  recognition  of  the  drama  as 
a  form  of  art  in  some  measure  dependent  upon  the 
cardinal  fact  that  it  is  a  social  transaction,  to  be 
presented  in  public  before  a  representative  audi- 
ence in  a  given  environment  and  within  a  specified 
interval  of  time.  To-day,  another  great  Italian 
critic,  Benedetto  Croce,  has  illuminated  with  rare 
clarity  the  true  function  of  all  criticism.  In  the 
light  of  his  esthetic,  we  cannot  parry  the  conclu- 
sion that  theatric  representation  of  the  drama  is 
perhaps  the  most  complex  and  difficult  mode  of 
criticism  the  arts  can  supply. 

According  to  Croce,  art  is  pure  intuition.  The 
transition  from  pure  intuition  to  creative  achieve- 
ment is  seen  in  four  successive  steps.  First  the 
artist  receives  certain  impressions,  as  the  result  of 
which  he  forms  a  certain  spiritual  esthetic  syn- 
thesis ;  with  this  expression  goes  a  certain  hedonis- 
tic accompaniment ;  and  the  final  step  is  taken  in 
the  translation  of  the  esthetic  fact  into  a  physical 
phenomenon.  Criticism  is  the  process  inverse  to 
creation.  The  critic  must  retrace  in  inverse  order 
the  steps  of  the  creative  artist  in  the  creation  of 


294,  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

a  work  of  art.  From  the  work  of  art,  the  critic 
receives  a  certain  stimulus ;  this  stimulus  expresses 
itself  in  the  form  of  perception  of  the  physical 
facts  of  the  art  work,  with  its  essential  hedonistic 
accompaniment.  These  in  turn  re-create  in  the 
mind  of  the  critic  the  original  spiritual  esthetic 
synthesis ;  the  re-translation  of  this  into  descrip- 
tive analysis  constitutes  literary  criticism. 

In  the  light  of  Croce's  theories,  I  should  like 
to  stress  the  fact  that  in  the  presentation  of  a 
drama,  we  have  the  most  intricate  and  complex 
form  of  critical  reproduction.  For  in  the  pro- 
cess of  criticism,  not  one  but  many  factors  are  in- 
volved. And  these  factors  are  interrelated  in  the 
most  intimate  ways.  The  esthetic  fact  is  the 
drama  itself  as  conceived  by  the  genius  of  the 
creative  artist.  The  hedonistic  accompaniment 
or  pleasure  of  the  beautiful  must  be  re-created 
in  the  mind  of  the  critical  interpreter  and  trans- 
lated into  a  physical,  mimetic,  oral  reproduction 
of  the  dramatic  creation. 

It  is  just  at  this  point  that  emerge  the  supreme 
complexities  of  the  problem.  The  critical  inter- 
preter here  is  not  the  individual  critic,  but  a 
group  of  interpreters,  the  actors.  The  hedonistic 
accompaniment  is  constituted  by  means  of  scen- 
ery, the  human  voice,  all  the  aids  of  esthetic  ex- 
pression, emotive,  decorative,  plastic.  The  phys- 
ical  reproduction   of  the   drama   is   limited   and 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        S95 

conditioned  by  the  physical  exigencies  of  the  play- 
house. The  drama,  as  a  form  of  critical  repre- 
sentation, is  the  most  tentative  and  experimental 
of  all  the  arts.  The  true  tragedy  of  dramatic 
genius  is  the  realization  that  all  theatric  repre- 
sentation is  but  a  mode  of  esthetic  approximation. 
Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Ibsen  suffered  the  supreme 
penalty  of  the  dramatic  art  in  never  seeing  real- 
ized upon  the  stage,  in  all  the  subtlety  of  meaning, 
the  range  of  intent,  the  perfection  of  beauty,  the 
pristine  creations  of  their  dramatic  fancy.  Gen- 
ius and  taste  are  identical  in  the  final  sense  that 
they  are  respectively  the  creative  and  re-creative 
processes  of  art.  The  final  limitation  of  the 
drama  is  that  the  perfect  presentation  of  a  dra- 
matic work  of  genius  can  never  be  achieved.  For 
the  interpreters  can  never  rise,  in  their  task  of 
interpretation,  to  the  full  altitude  of  the  genius 
nor  wholly  identify  themselves  with  his  spirit. 

The  cardinal  fact,  the  supreme  discovery  of 
modern  dramatic  criticism,  is  the  full  recognition 
that  the  drama  is  limited  by  the  physical  form  of 
the  theater,  the  histrionic  ability  of  the  players, 
the  co-operative  assistance  of  the  auxiliary  arts. 
This  discovery  is  responsible  for  the  esthetic 
revolution  of  to-day  in  the  drama.  It  is  this  es- 
thetic revolution  which  is  prophetic  of  the  future 
enlargement  and  enrichment  of  dramatic  art. 
Nevertheless     contemporary     criticism     of     the 


296  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

drama,  stirred  by  the  significance  and  fertility  of 
the  new  discovery,  has  gone  to  extremes  of  gen- 
eralization on  the  subject  of  the  influence  of  archi- 
tectural structure  upon  dramatic  form  and  con- 
tent. Incited  by  the  modern  scientific  tendency 
to  decry  individual  volition  and  to  assign  para- 
mount importance  to  the  shaping  influence  of  en- 
vironment, and  inspired  by  the  modern  critical 
tendency  to  supply  an  economic  interpretation 
of  all  manifestations  of  the  human  spirit,  much 
modem  criticism  has  shattered  the  true  perspec- 
tive in  the  inter-relationship  of  the  playhouse  and 
the  play. 

The  drama  is  a  democratic  art.  This  may  be, 
and  generally  is,  casually  accepted  as  a  truism. 
Certainly  it  is  true  in  the  specific  sense  that  dra- 
matic production  is  a  business,  a  trade,  dependent 
for  success  upon  the  suffrage  of  the  public.  The 
playhouse  no  more  determines  the  form  and  con- 
tent of  the  drama  than  the  "  drama's  patrons  " 
give  the  "  drama's  laws."  The  most  that  can  be 
said  is  that  the  playhouse,  in  its  physical  propor- 
tions, is  only  one  of  the  innumerable  influences 
which  "  condition  "  but  do  not  "  determine  "  the 
form  and  content  of  the  drama. 

The  pressure  exerted  by  the  creative  dramatist 
in  the  invention  of  new  forms  of  art  is  illustrated 
by  the  steady  evolution  of  theatrical  accessories 
in  conformity  to  that  pressure.     The  successive 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        297 

changes  in  form  and  technic,  in  the  history  of  the 
drama,  are  not  explicit  consequences  of  the  altera- 
tions in  the  form  of  the  playhouse.  They  may 
be  implicit  indications  of  these  alterations.  But 
it  must  be  clearly  recognized  that  they  may  be 
equally  consequent  upon  many  other  forces. 
Among  such  forces  may  be  numbered  the  change 
in  the  social  temper  of  the  people,  the  decay  of 
popular  interest  in  traditional  legend  and  story, 
monarchical  or  republican  tendencies,  the  growth 
of  democratic  sentiment,  the  change  in  art  ideals. 
Probably  the  most  potential  of  all  such  forces  is 
the  creative  contribution  of  the  imaginative  artist. 

We  may  well  believe  that  the  mask  was  retained 
on  the  Greek  stage  because  the  actor  was  too  re- 
mote from  the  audience  to  permit  of  effective  fa- 
cial mobility.  But  there  is  no  reason  to  believe 
that  the  form  of  the  theater  occasioned  its  original 
adoption.  The  characteristic  features  of  Greek 
drama  were  characteristic  features  of  Greek  art, 
of  Hellenic  thought  and  religious  feelings.  The 
qualities  of  the  statuesque,  of  massive  proportion, 
of  distaste  for  overt  violence  are  distinctive  char- 
acteristics of  the  Hellenic  spirit  in  life  and  art. 
It  was  this  spirit  which  determined  the  form  of 
the  playhouse. 

The  rhetorical  and  lyric  character  of  Eliza- 
bethan drama  is  glibly  declared  nowadays  to  have 
been  a  direct  consequence  of  the  platform  stage. 


298  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

It  Is  indubitable,  liowever,  that  these  same  char- 
acteristics prevailed     in     Elizabethan    literature. 
Since  they  constituted  the  esthetic  expression  of 
the  spirit  of  the  people,  they  persisted  and  pre- 
vailed Irrespective  of  the  form  of  the  playhouse. 
Indeed,  we  may  well  believe  that  they  would  have 
persisted   had   there  been   no  playhouses    In    the 
Elizabethan   era.      The   "  apron  "     of    the    post- 
Elizabethan  stage,   which  persisted   for  two   cen- 
turies   following    the   Restoration,     afforded     the 
Ideal  rostrum  for  the  display  of  all  the  arts  of 
rhetoric  and  oratory.    Yet  we  know  that  wit,  dia- 
lectic, epigram,  and  repartee,  characteristic  of  the 
temper    of    the    time,    along    with    rhetoric    and 
oratory,  were  distinguishing  characteristics  of  the 
drama  during  the  latter  half  of  the  survival  of 
the  "  apron  "  stage.     This  group   of  character- 
istics is  unrecognizable  as  an  explicit,  or  even  an 
Implicit,  function    of   the   physical   conformation 
of  the  stage.     The  picture-frame  stage,  supposed 
to  conduce  wholly  to  objective  and  pictorial  ef- 
fects,   has    been    responsible    for    the    eloquent 
speechmaking  of  a  Stockmann,  the  fulgurant  rhet- 
oric   of    UAiglon,    the    masterly    conversational 
drama  of  Wilde,  the  wit,  epigram,  and  dialectic 
of    Shaw,    the    illusion-shattering    conclusions    of 
Peter  Pan,  The  Blue  Bird — and  A   Good  Little 
Devil!     The  particularistic   realism   of  Fielding, 
of  Richardson,  set  up  a  movement  in  fiction  which 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        299 

in  time  spread  its  influence  over  all  forms  of  nar- 
rative art.  The  study  of  humanity  as  a  branch 
of  natural  history,  and  not  the  invention  of  the 
picture-frame  stage,  is  responsible  for  the  realis- 
tic temper  of  contemporary  dramatic  art.  Ibsen, 
striving  for  "  strong  realistic  coloring,"  abolished 
the  monologue  and  the  aside  in  1869:  and  this 
antedated  Edison's  discovery  of  the  incandescent 
bulb  by  a  decade,  and  its  general  use  by  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  The  "  heredity  "  of  a  work  of  dra- 
matic art,  equally  with,  and  perhaps  more  than  its 
"  environment,"  is  responsible  for  changes  in  the 
content  and  form  of  the  drama. 

It  is  indubitably  true  that  the  form  of  the  play- 
bouse,  the  particular  type  of  stage  properties,  the 
status  of  the  profession  of  acting,  and  many  other 
influences  require  the  playwright  to  work  within 
limits.  In  this  sense,  then,  is  the  drama  a  con- 
comitant "  function  "  of  these  things.  An  original 
genius  like  Shaw  significantly  confesses :  "  I  do 
not  select  my  methods :  they  are  imposed  on  me  by 
a  hundred  considerations:  by  the  physical  condi- 
tions of  theatric  representation,  by  the  laws  de- 
vised by  the  municipality  to  guard  against  fires 
and  other  accidents  to  which  theaters  are  liable,  by 
the  economic  conditions  of  theatrical  commerce, 
by  the  nature  and  limits  of  the  art  of  acting, 
by  the  capacity  of  the  spectators  for  under- 
standing what  they  see  and  hear,  and  by  the  ac- 
cidental circumstances  of  the  particular  produc- 


SOO  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

tion  in  hand."  A  study  of  the  drama  and  of  the 
stage  of  all  ages  brings  to  light  the  almost  in- 
credible fact  that  the  alterations  in  the  form  of 
the  stage  and  of  the  theater  have  only  occasion- 
ally been  directly  dictated  by  the  immediate  de- 
mands of  the  dramatist  for  larger  freedom  in 
creation.  These  changes  have  been  dictated  or 
prompted  by  considerations,  sometimes  wholly 
alien,  often  at  best  very  imperfectly  related,  to 
the  real  needs  of  the  dramatist  as  a  creative 
craftsman.  It  was  not  as  a  rule  the  genius  of  the 
dramatist,  creating  new  forms  of  drama  that  de- 
manded changed  physical  environment  for  their 
production,  which  dictated  the  architectural 
changes  in  the  playhouse.  Imperfect  illumination 
was,  it  is  believed,  primarily  responsible  for  the 
projecting  of  a  curving  stage  far  beyond  the 
frame  of  the  proscenium  arch — and  not  the  de- 
mand of  some  "  new "  dramatist  for  a  stage 
adapted  to  the  "  drama  of  conversation."  It  was 
not  the  esthetic  requirements  of  Moliere,  but  the 
economic  conditions  of  acting  as  a  business,  which 
dictated  the  tennis-court  stage.  It  was  not  the 
demand  of  Augier  and  Dumas  fils,  but  the  eco- 
nomic problem  of  the  pressure  of  population,  which 
compelled  the  gradual  shrinkage  and  final  oblit- 
eration of  the  projecting  platform  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century. 

In  the  light  of  the  discovery  of  the  real  truth 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        301 

underlying  the  conception  of  the  drama  as  the 
meeting  place  of  all  the  arts,  we  behold  the  emer- 
gence of  a  new  figure.  It  is  a  figure  that  promises 
to  work  a  revolution  in  the  art  of  the  theater  and 
of  the  drama.  This  new  figure,  realizing  the 
hampering  restrictions  to  which  the  drama  of  thp 
past  has  been  subjected,  has  boldly  determined 
to  mold  the  theater  to  the  purposes  of  the  dram- 
atist. No  longer  shall  the  drama  continue  to  be 
subject  to,  and  enslaved  by,  the  exigencies  of  the 
playhouse,  the  poverty  of  histrionic  ability,  the 
woeful  artificialities  and  painful  inadequacies  of 
scenic  investiture.  All  the  instrumentalities  for 
dramatic  production  are  to  be  subject  to,  condi- 
tioned upon,  the  esthetic  requirements  of  the 
dramatist. 

Science  and  art  have  at  last  joined  hands.  The 
drama  and  the  theater,  for  the  first  time  in  his- 
tory, have  begun  to  unite  in  a  true  partnership. 
Science,  applying  the  spirit  of  experimentalism 
to  the  problems  of  theatrical  representation  and 
of  playhouse  construction,  has  co-operated  with 
the  dramatist  in  the  invention  of  new  methods  of 
illumination,  the  supplantation  of  the  old  foot- 
lights with  overhead  and  side  illumination,  the 
revolving  stage,  the  artificial  horizon,  and 
innumerable  other  means  for  the  artificial 
creation  of  natural  illusion.  Art,  utilizing 
all  the   skill  of  the  costumer,  the   designer,  the 


302  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

painter,  in  the  spirit  of  esthetic  experimentalism, 
has  co-operated  with  the  dramatist  in  the  crea- 
tion of  new  instrumentalities,  decorative,  pictorial, 
plastic,  for  achieving  the  effects  sought  by  the 
dramatist.  In  my  own  experience,  the  chasmal 
change  is  best  represented  by  a  comparison  of  the 
method  of  Brahm  in  the  production  of  an  Ibsen 
play  at  the  Lessing  Theater  in  Berlin  and  the 
production  of  Wagner's  Ring  at  the  Prinzregen- 
ten  Theater  in  Munich.  The  Wild  Duck,  as  pre- 
sented at  the  Lessing  Theater,  notable  for  the 
distinction  of  the  acting,  was  marred  by  the  over- 
elaboration  of  insignificant  scenic  detail,  the  dis- 
tracting superabundance  of  commonplace  furni- 
ture and  accessories.  The  Ring,  as  presented  at 
the  Prinzregenten  Theater,  conspicuous  neither 
for  the  genius  of  the  acting  nor  the  supremacy  of 
the  singing,  was  memorable  for  the  stage  manage- 
ment. All  the  arts  seemed  employed  for  a  single 
end:  to  realize  the  leading  motives  of  the  music 
drama,  and  to  co-operate  in  the  production  of 
esthetic  unity  of  impression. 

Nature,  in  its  processes,  is  essentially  experi- 
mental. A  thousand  tentative  failures  is  the  price 
of  a  single  success.  The  new  art  of  the  theater 
is  experimental  in  the  same  sense.  A  thousand 
combinations  of  esthetic  values  are  tried  before 
the  real  right  one  is  found.  Gordon  Craig  has  de- 
fined art  as  scientific  knowledge.     Surely  this  is 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        303 

one  of  the  most  revolutionary  definitions  of  art 
in  all  history.  Craig,  Reinhardt,  Stanislavsky, 
Barker  have  employed  all  the  arts  in  all  phases 
from  the  earliest  time  until  to-day,  in  the  effort 
to  achieve  the  perfect  symbol  of  the  drama.  The 
impressionism  of  Japan,  the  conventional  picto- 
rial hieroglyphics  of  Egypt  and  Assyria,  the  bas- 
relief  of  Italy,  and  the  fresco  of  modern  art;  the 
substitution  of  shadow-perspective  on  plane  re- 
lief for  solid  perspective ;  the  employment  of  pri- 
mary colors  and  mass-effects  against  a  mono- 
chrome background;  the  creation  of  changes  in 
color  through  changing  lights  thrown  upon  tall 
dull-toned  screens,  arranged  in  varying  de- 
signs ;  the  employment  of  the  rectangular  to  sug- 
gest towering  architecture  and  vanishing  perspec- 
tive— these  are  characteristic  examples  of  the 
methods  of  the  regisseur  or  stage-manager  in 
achieving  this  new,  experimental  art  of  the  thea- 
ter which  is  no  less  the  new,  experimental  art  of 
the  drama. 

Stimmung,  said  Strindberg — ah!  that  is  Poe- 
try. This  is  the  clue  to  this  art  of  the  future 
which  stands  out  as  the  most  significant  tendency 
of  the  contemporary  dramatic  movement.  The 
aim  of  ail  these  practitioners  of  the  united  arts, 
however  differing  their  methods,  is  to  grasp  the  es- 
sential spirit  of  the  drama.  And  having  grasped 
it,  then  to  realize  in  symbol  this  prevailing  mood, 


304  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

this  atmospheric  motif.  Rhythm,  mobile  relief, 
symbolic  interpretation,  mass-effect,  imaginative 
decoration — these  are  some  of  the  instrumental- 
ities by  which  the  new  artist  is  to  achieve  his 
esthetic  interpretation  of  the  dramatist's  design. 
To  the  new  artist,  pure  realism  is  caricature.  His 
design  is  imaginative  not  realistic,  decorative  not 
graphic.  The  attention  of  the  spectator  is  no 
longer  to  be  distracted  by  the  meticulous  realism 
of  the  scenery  and  the  historical  accuracy  of  the 
costumes.  His  entire  attention  will  be  held  by 
the  co-operation  of  all  the  auxiliary  arts  in  the 
achievement  of  the  dramatist's  emotional  design. 
The  ancient  weakness  of  the  drama  bids  fair  to 
be  reduced  to  a  minimum.  For  the  day  is  surely 
dawning  when  the  dramatist  shall  become  his  own 
regisseur.  So  long  as  the  play  of  the  dramatist  is 
dependent  for  production  upon  the  artistic  tem- 
perament of  the  stage-manager,  so  long  will  there 
lurk  that  danger  of  bifurcation  of  interest  on  the 
part  of  the  spectator.  The  force  of  the  drama 
may  be  lost  in  contemplative  admiration  of  the 
esthetic  genius  of  the  producer.  That  can  only  be 
a  rare  and  fortuitous  conjunction  when  the  tem- 
perament of  the  dramatist  and  the  temperament 
of  the  producer  are  in  sympathetic  and  har- 
monious accord.  The  coming  of  the  new  art 
widens,  as  nothing  hitherto  has  ever  done,  the 
breach  between  drama  and  literature.     To  achieve 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        305 

his  purpose,  to  secure  his  effect,  the  dramatist 
of  the  future  must  become  the  true  "  theater- 
poet."  He  must  cease  to  be  a  mere  purveyor  of 
literature,  and  must  become  a  technical  genius  of 
the  theater.  He  must  acquire  a  mastery  of  the 
intellectual,  emotive,  decorative,  and  plastic 
media  for  the  visual  and  aural  realization  of  the 
dramatic  symbol. 

The  age  of  realism  has  done  its  great  work.  All 
art  bears  its  stamp  and  superscription.  It  is 
inconceivable  for  any  period  of  the  immediate  fu- 
ture that  real  life  of  the  day  will  be  presented  on 
the  stage  without  the  instrumentality  of  realistic 
transcription  of  reality.  The  new  art  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking  is  essentially  imaginative, 
symbolic,  poetic,  romantic.  It  points  at  once  to 
the  past  and  to  the  future.  Its  fundamental 
weakness  is  that  it  has  achieved  no  successful  sym- 
bolic rendition  of  the  spirit  of  to-day.  And  doubt- 
less the  reason  for  this  is  that  the  present,  the 
period  of  prose,  of  actuality,  does  not  "  compose  " 
readily  in  terms  of  the  imaginative  and  the  sym- 
bolic. The  present  is  of  all  things  most  evanes- 
cent. Stretch  out  the  hand  to  reach  it  and  it  is 
even  to-morrow.  Grasp  it  and  lo !  it  is  yesterday. 
To  write  of  the  present  is  to  write  of  transition. 
And  this  age  is,  of  all  others,  most  transitory, 
because  it  realizes  itself  as  a  link  between  the 
ages,  and,  having  no  sense  of  finality,  can  give 


306  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

no  impression  of  itself  as  an  entity.  There  is 
that  within  it  which  is  of  to-morrow,  and  of  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  of  the  far  future.  But 
to-morrow  built  upon  to-day  shall  be  the  child 
of  its  dreams.  The  new  art  has  achieved  success 
almost  solely  in  the  realm  of  the  drama  of  the 
past,  or  the  poetic,  symbolic  drama  of  the  present 
— Reinhardt's  CEdipus,  Craig's  Hamlet,  Barker's 
A  Winter's  Tale  and  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
Stanislavsky's  The  Blue  Bird,  The  circumstance 
may  well  be  prophetic.  The  drama  of  the  near 
future,  the  realization  of  the  new  art  of  the  the- 
ater and  of  the  drama  working  in  conjunction, 
gives  promise  of  being  a  new  species  of  symbolic 
poetry.  It  bids  fair  to  be  dynamically  emotive, 
vast  in  scope,  cosmic  in  conception,  universal  in 
appeal. 

The  other,  great  tendency  in  the  drama  of 
to-day,  which  reveals  itself  most  conspicuously  in 
the  English-speaking  countries  through  a  series 
of  scattered  and  uncorrclated  movements,  is  the 
irresistible  tendency  toward  the  organization  of 
the  theater  as  a  social  force.  The  national  the- 
atrical institutions  of  France,  with  State  subsidy, 
the  municipal  theaters  of  Germany,  the  Conti- 
nental types  of  repertory  theater,  have  furnished 
the  clue  and  the  starting-point  for  the  re-organ- 
ization of  the  theater  as  an  instrumentality  for 
ministering  to  the  social  needs  of  the  people.    In 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        307 

the  theater  of  commerce,  the  drama  is  regarded 
solely  as  a  business,  a  trade ;  a  play  is  exploited 
primarily  on  the  basis  of  its  lucrative  possibili- 
ties. Not  conservation  but  destruction  of  the 
drama  is  the  outcome  of  the  policy  which  takes 
a  play  and  runs  it  to  death — literally  wearing 
out  the  play  itself  and  the  public  by  giving  the 
play  the  longest  consecutive  run  it  will  endure. 
The  growth  of  repertory  in  Great  Britain  and  the 
United  States  arises  from  a  recognition  that  the 
managerial  policy  purely  commercial,  or  rather 
purely  mercenary,  inevitably  results  in  the  ex- 
clusion from  the  theater  of  countless  contem- 
porary plays.  A  distinctive  feature  of  the  mod- 
ern dramatic  movement  is  the  creation  of  a  great 
variety  of  plays  of  a  new  type,  whether  of  one, 
three,  or  four  acts,  which  do  not  bear  the  test  of 
the  long  run.  They  are  calculated  to  appeal, 
not  to  the  unthinking  crowd,  moved  solely 
through  the  eye  and  the  cruder  emotions,  but  to 
the  more  intelligent  sections  of  the  modern  public 
animated  by  the  larger  social  consciousness  of 
the  epoch.  The  great  problem  which  faces  the 
dramatist  and  the  manager  of  to-day  is  the  find- 
ing of  the  way  and  the  means  of  enticing  once 
more  into  the  theater  the  best  elements  of  the 
public,  which  have  been  driven  from  the  theater 
by  the  banality  of  the  tone  of  the  commercial 
play,  its  deficiency  in  intellectual  speculativeness, 


308  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

its  dependence  upon  the  purely  emotional,  the 
theatrical,  or  even  the  frankly  melodramatic  ap- 
peal. 

Along  with  this  task  goes  the  cognate  task  of 
organizing,  of  educating,  the  great  public — the 
general  run  of  playgoers,  popular  supporters  of 
all  types  of  theatric  production — by  setting  up 
sane,  broad,  normal  standards  of  estimate  and 
judgment  of  the  current  drama.  The  repertory 
theaters  which  have  sprung  up  in  Great  Britain 
as  the  natural  outgrowth  of  the  privately  con- 
ducted organizations  for  the  production  of  for- 
eign and  native  dramatic  masterpieces  and  the 
encouragement  of  native  dramatic  talent,  such  as 
tlie  Independent  Theater,  the  New  Century  The- 
ater, the  Stage  Society,  and  the  Elizabethan 
Stage  Society,  testify  to  the  growing  sense  of  the 
recognition  of  the  necessity  for  ministering  to 
the  esthetic  needs  of  the  more  cultivated  sections 
of  contemporary  society.  The  inauguration  of 
similar  organizations  in  the  United  States,  within 
the  past  decade,  is  a  tentative  sign  of  a  similar 
change  in  sentiment  in  this  regard.  Simultane- 
ously, efforts  toward  the  organization  of  the 
theater  and  the  drama  along  national  lines,  having 
for  ultimate  purpose  the  education  of  the  great 
public  and  the  gratification  of  its  recreative  needs, 
find  embodiment  in  such  significant  institutions  as 
the    projected    Shakespeare    Memorial    National 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        309 

Theater  in  England,  and  the  Drama  League  of 
America  which  has  already  enlisted  the  services 
of  the  ablest  thinkers  and  constructive  workers, 
in  the  drama,  in  the  theater,  in  criticism,  which 
the  country  affords.  The  indispensable  pioneer- 
ing work  has  already  begun;  large  social  forces, 
touching  all  the  esthetic  and  vital  tendencies  of 
the  age,  have  already  been  set  in  motion.  Behind 
all  these  new  tendencies  lurks  the  vague,  yet  hope- 
fully communal,  aspiration  toward  the  incorpora- 
tion into  the  functions  of  a  democratic  state  of 
the  fostering,  conservation,  and  support  of  the 
drama  as  a  great  social  institution  potentially 
capable  of  ministering  to  the  esthetic  and  recrea- 
tive needs  of  a  people. 

The  drama  of  to-day,  through  the  influences 
of  modern  science,  of  contemporary  democracy, 
of  shifting  moral  values,  of  the  critical  rather 
than  the  worshipful  attitude  toward  life,  of  an 
irresistible  thrust  toward  increased  naturalism 
and  greater  veracity,  has  become  bourgeois,  deal- 
ing with  the  world  of  every  day ;  comic,  verging 
upon  the  tearful,  or  serious,  trenching  upon  the 
tragic;  unheroic,  suburban,  and  almost  prosaic, 
yet  intensely  interesting  by  reason  of  its  sincerity 
and  its  humanity ;  essentially  critical  in  tone,  prov- 
ing all  things,  holding  fast  that  which  is  good. 
The  contemporary  realist  has  learned  to  dispense 
with  the  outworn   theatricalities,  the  threadbare 


310  THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

conventions  which  discredit  the  efficient  crafts- 
man. Unity  of  action,  alone  of  the  three  unities, 
survives  as  an  obligatory  force ;  and  contemporary 
creativeness  has  brought  to  light  a  fourth  unity, 
unity  of  impression.  There  is  to-day  no  abstract 
or  ideal  justice  to  replace  the  poetic  justice  of  a 
more  artificial  theory  of  art.  Action  and  exposi- 
tion proceed  hand  in  hand,  or  become  identical ; 
and  the  modern  drama  concerns  itself  less  with  ma- 
terial action  than  with  a  minute  and  exhaustive 
consideration  of  the  motives  which  prompt  to 
action.  Neither  conflict  nor  action  is  indispensa- 
ble to  the  contemporary  play ;  passivity  and  im- 
mobility may  constitute  its  ground  tone  and  mo- 
tive. The  influence  of  the  picture-frame  stage, 
making  for  perfect  objectivity,  is  offset  by  the 
continual  recurrence  of  the  personal  and  the  tem- 
peramental. Rarer  and  rarer  are  becoming  the 
"  necessarily  artificial  poems  that  arise  from  the 
impossible  marriage  of  past  and  present  " ;  and 
in  the  future,  reconstitution  of  past  epochs,  re- 
vitalization  of  historic  episodes  and  characters, 
promise  to  be  effected  solely  through  the  trans- 
mutativc  media  of  modern  thought  and  modern 
philosophy.  The  drama  to-day  embodies  the  so- 
cial fervor  of  the  epoch.  The  humanizing  influ- 
ences of  fraternal  sympathy,  of  social  pity  and 
social  justice,  are  everywhere  beginning  to  re- 
place the  pressure   of  more  personal  and   selfish 


THE  NEWER  TENDENCIES        311 

interests.  The  drama  is  finally  losing  its  char- 
acter as  pure  literature;  the  closet-drama  is  a 
bald  anachronism.  The  drama  of  the  future  prom- 
ises to  be,  in  the  creative  and  constructive  sense,  a 
synthesis  of  all  the  arts.  The  dramatist  of  the 
future  bids  fair  to  be  the  Admirable  Crichton  in 
the  Romance  of  Esthetics. 


THE    END 


INDEX 


About,  Edmond,  253 
Addams,  Jane,   17 
Addison,  Joseph,  285 
Advancement    of    Learning, 

284 
^schylus,   155,   198 
Aesthetic,  239 
Aiglon,  L',   298 
Alabama,  2-27 

Alias  Jimmy  Valentine,  271 
Allen,  Grant,  267 
Anatol,  20 
Ancey,  George,  119 
Andreyev,  Leonid,  127,  144, 

279 
Anna  Karenina,  13,  19 
Antoine,    Andre,    118,    119, 

120,   122 
Afologie  for  Poetrie,  284 
Archer,  William,  154 
Aristophanes,  34,  74 
Aristotle,  31,  32,  35,  44,  52, 

54,    56,    61,    62,    147,    148, 

149,    150,    151,    158,    160, 

174,    216,    254,    281,    282, 

283 
Arms  and  the  Man,  158,  208 
Arnold,  Matthew,  265 
Arnold,  Maurice  LeRoy,  198 
Assommoir,    U,    115 
Augier,  Emile,  75,  116,  117, 

172,  300 
Avaries,  Les,  121,  157 
Aveugles,    Les,    155 

Bacon,  Francis,  162,  284 
Bahr,   Hermann,   232 
Baker,    Elizabeth,    155 


Barker,     Harley     Granville, 

32,  70,   137,  155,   158,  174, 

176,    178,    204,    223,    258, 

264,   303,   306 
Bataille   de  Dames,  La,  116 
Baudelaire,   Charles,   21 
Beaumarchais,     Pierre     Au- 

gustin  Caron   de,  257 
Becque,    Henri,    120 
Beddoes,   T.   L.,  192 
Before  Sunrise,  119,  122  (v. 

Vor    Sonnenaufgang) 
Ben  Hur,  107 
Bennett,    Arnold,    68 
Bergson,   Henri,   7,   50,   104, 

109,   145 
Bergstrom,      Hjalmar,      80, 

135 
Beyond   Human  Power,   90, 

142 
Bjornson,   Bjornstjerne,  87, 

^5,  105,  117,  122,  135,  142, 

157,  158,  168,  170,  256,  268, 

276,  278 
Blanchette,    119,    128 
Blue    Bird,    The,    155,    186, 

298,  306 
Boileau,  55 
Bourgeois  Oentilhomme,  Le, 

158 
Bourget,  Paul,  226 
Brahm,  Otto,  122,  302 
Brand,    68 
Brandes,  Georg,  33,  74,  201, 

255 
Brieux,   Eugene,   8,   38,   102, 

104,    105,    106,    111,    119, 

120,    121,     128,    135,    157, 


313 


314 


INDEX 


158,    168,    170,    171,    176, 

195,    217,     219,     224,    278 
Browne,  Walter,  144 
Bruneti6re,    Ferdinand,    19, 

43,     44,      150,     151,     152, 

153 
Bunyan,  John,  107 
Burbank,   I.uther,  34 
Burton,  Richard,  164 

Cabiria,  143 

Cailhava  d'Estendoux,  J.  F. 

de,  200 
Calderon,  Pedro,  35,  155 
Candida,  69,  136,  157,  170 
Carlyle,    Thomas,   270 
Carnegie,  Andrew,  276 
Caspari,  Theodore,  146 
Castelvetro,     Lodovico,     56, 

57,  292 
Cenci,   The,  172 
Chains,   155 
Chantecler,   185 
Cherry  Garden,  The,  177  (v. 

Cherry   Orchard) 
Cherry    Orchard,    The,    134, 

270,  274    (v.  Cherry  Gar- 
den) 
Chesterton,  Gilbert,  106,  270, 

274 
Citta    Morte,    La,    128 
Clarissa  Harlowe,   264 
Comedy    of   Love,    The,    67, 

76 
Come  le  Foglie,  264 
Cominfj   of  Peace,   The,  123 

(v.  Das  Friedensfest.) 
Commedia  dell'  arte,  208 
Comtesse  d'Escarbagnas,  205 
Congreve,       William,       137, 

189 
Corbeaux,    Les,    120 
Corneille,  Pierre,  35,  55,  61, 

205,  269 
Courtney,  William  Leonard, 

273,  274 


Craig,  Gordon,  64,  204,  302, 

303,   306 
Creditors,  The,  70,  128,  131, 

134,   214 
Critique,  205 
Croce,  Benedetto,  2,  25,  40, 

239,  293,  294 
Cromwell,  58 
Crosby,  Ernest,  256 
Curie,  La,  80 
Cuvier,   Georges,   114 
Cynthio,  Giraldi,  56 

Dacier,  Andr^,  269 
D'Alembert,  Jacques,   105 
Dame  aux  Camellias,  La,  90 
Dance    of    Death,    The,    63, 

157 
D'Annunzio,  Gabriele,  4,  63, 

64,  128,  142,  204,  224,  232, 

233,  235 
Darwin,  Charles,  43,  49,  99 
D'Aubignac,    F.    H.,    Abb^, 

199,  269 
DMale,  Le,  101 
De   I'art  de   la  comMie,  200 
DeMille,    Wm.    C,   272 
Dennis,    John,    285 
Devil's    Disciple,    The,    241, 

246 
De  Vries,  Hugo,  34,  43,  49, 

79,  124,  139 
Diary  of  Edmond  Got,  The, 

173 
Dickens,    Charles,    16,    227, 

270,  271 
Diderot,  Denis,  257,  258,  259 
Doctor's  Dilemma,  The,  20 
Doll's  House,  A,  66,  67,  76, 

88,  90,  133,   156,  207,  213, 

214,  265,  278 
Don  Juan  in  Hell,  135 
Dostoievsky,    Feodor,   16 
Dream  Play,  The,  155 
Dryden,  John,  35,  159,  199, 

205,  285 


INDEX 


315 


Dumas,    Alexandre,    75    (v. 

Dumas  fils) 
Dumas   fils,   16,  33,  94,   115, 

116,    117,     118,    119,    157, 

216,  300 
Dundreary,  Lord,  35 

Easiest  Way,  The,  197 

Easter,  142,  155 

Echegaray,   Jose,  4,    100 

Edison,  Thomas,  299 

Ehre,  Die,  217 

Einsame  Menschen,  123,  128 

Electra,  157 

Elektra,  63,  70,  71 

Eliot,    George,    13,    16,    18, 

264 
Eloesser,  Arthur,  171 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  16, 

45 
Emperor    and    Oalilean,    68, 

76,   190 
Enemy   of   the   People,  An, 

19,    66,    68,    76,    103,    134, 

157,  217,  277 
Essay    of    Dramatic   Poesy, 
,159,  199 

Etrangh-e,  L',  117 
Eucken,   Rudolf,   113 
Euripides,  32,  198 
European  Dramatists,  53 
Everywoman,  144 

Fabre,    Camille,    119 
Faguet,  Emile,  118,  119 
Falck,  C,  204 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 

The,  64,  140,  281 
Familie  Selicke,  Die,  123 
Fanny's  First  Play,  136 
Father,    The,    69,    119,    131, 

157 
Faust,  144,  279 
Fecondit^,   279 
Femme  de  Claude,  La,  19 


Femme  Seule,  La,  121 
Ferrero,  Guglielmo,  276 
Fielding,  Henry,  265,  298 
Fils  Naturel,  Le,  157,  257 
Fitch,   Clyde,  88,  223 
Flaubert,    Gustav,    21,    22 
Forbes-Robertson,  Johnston, 

276 
Francesca  da  Rimini,  63 
Freytag,  Gustav,  28,  44 
Friedensfest,   Das,    69,    123, 

169  (v.  Coming  of  Peace) 
Fugitive,  The,  101 
Fuhrmann  Henschel,  262 

Galdos,  Benito  Perez,  157 
Galsworthy,  John,  38,  69,  70, 

101,     102,     137,    155,   157, 

158,    170,    171,     175,    176, 

177,    178,    179,    218,    223, 

256 
Gascoigne,  George,  284 
Gauntlet,  A,   122,   135,   157 
Gay  Lord  Quex,  The,  157 
Gendre    de   M.   Poirier,  Le, 

172 
George,  Henry,  99 
George    Barmcell,    256,    264 

(v.  The  London  Merchant) 

264 
Getting    Married,    70,    136, 

175 
Ghosts,    35,    36,    66,   67,    76, 

80,  119,  121,  122,  128,  157, 

216 
Giacosa,  Giuseppe,   69,  231, 

264 
Gioconda,  La,   233 
Gilbert,  W.  S.,  209,  210 
Glasse  off  Government,  The, 

284 
Goethe,    Wolfgang    von,    6, 

77,  96,  144,  155,  279 
Goldoni,   Carlo,    155 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  253 
Good  Hope,   The,   142 


316 


INDEX 


Good  Little  Devil,  A,  298 
Gorky,  Maxim,  127,  155,  158, 

278 
Gosse,  Edmund,  190 
Got,    Edmond,    173 
Gottschall,  Rudolph  von,  73 
Oran  Oaleoto,  El,  100 
Grand  Monarque,  41 
Great  Divide,  The,  20,   135, 

157 
Grierson,  Francis,   19 
Grillparzer,  Franz,  59 

Habitation  Enforced,  An 
281 

Haeckel,  Ernst,   99 

Haggard,   H.   Rider,  206 

Hamlet,  64,  73,  103,  142,  271, 
306 

Hankin,  St.  John,  69,  137, 
158,  178 

Hannele,  142,  155,  280 

Hapless   Love,   69 

Hardy,  Thomas,   139,  286 

Hauptmann,  Gerhardt,  47, 
69,  71,  77,  78,  80,  87,  89, 
95,  105,  119,  121,  122, 
123,  124,  125,  127,  128, 
142,  147,  149,  155,  158, 
168,  169,  170,  174,  176, 
193,  224,  231,  262,  273, 
278,    280,    287 

Hebbel,  Friedrich,  74,  75, 
157,  261,  262 

Hedda  Gabler,  66,  67,  76, 
80,  128,  207,  214,  216,  229, 
267,  287 

Heijermans,    Hermann,    143 

Heimat,  80,  264 

Hennique,   L^on,    119 

Hernani,   157 

Hervieu,   Paul,    101,   217 

Historye  of  Promos  and 
Cassandra,   284 

Hofmannsthal,  Hugo  von, 
63.   70 


Hohnsen,  Bjarne  P.,  77 
Hok,  Arno,  77,  121,  122 
Hoskins,   John    Preston,   43, 

46 
Hostrup,      Rev.      Christian, 

237 
Houghton,    Stanley,    178 
Howe,   P.   P.,  211 
Hovvells,  William  Dean,  122 
Hugo,    Victor,    16,    35,    58, 

157,  218 

Ibsen,   Fru,  167 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  3,  7,  14,  15, 
18,  20,  21,  22,  23,  25,  27, 
28,  29,  31,  33,  35,  37,  38, 
45,  47,  48,  53,  58,  64,  65, 
66,  67,  68,  70,  71,  72,  73, 
74,  75,  76,  77,  80,  81,  82, 
86,  87,  88,  89,  90,  91,  92, 
93,  95,  98,  99,  100,  102,  104, 
105,  117,  118,  119,  121, 
128,  133,  134,  135,  136, 
142,  144,  146,  155,  156, 
157,  158,  159,  165,  167, 
168,  170,  171,  190,  191, 
192,  193,  195,  196,  200, 
201,  205,  206,  207,  209, 
211,  214,  215,  216,  217, 
222,  224,  228,  229,  231, 
232,  237,  239,  256,  259, 
261,  263.,  264,  2^5,  266, 
267,  268,  276,  277,  278, 
279,  287,  291,  295,  299, 
302 

Ibsen,    Sigurd,    74 

Iff  land,  August  Wilhelm, 
257 

Ignatoff,  I.  N.,  97 

Iliad,   47 

Impromptu,   205 

Intentions,    150 

Intirieure,  L',   155,   280 

Intriise,   L',    153,    155,    280 

Iris,   70 

Ivanhoe,  279 


INDEX 


317 


James,  Henry,  326 

James,  William,  7,  25,  43,  50 

Jean  Christophe,  lOi 

John    Bull's    Other    Island, 

217,    278 
John   Gabriel  Borkman,  66, 

67,   70,   76,  207 
John,   King,   256 
Johnson,   Samuel,   91,   285 
Jones,    Henry    Arthur,    157, 

205,  221,  223 
Julia,  74 
Justice,   102,   279 

Kabale  und  Liehe,  257 
Karen   Borneman,   80 
Kennedy,  Charles  Rann,  70, 

142 
King  Henry    V,  59 
Kipling,    Rudyard,    7,    102, 

281 
Kleist,  Heinrich  von,  73 
Kotzebue,  A.  F.  F.  von,  257 

Lady  from  the  Sea,  The,  66, 

67,  76,  216 
Lady  Inger  of  Oestraat,  67, 

75,  200 
Lady      Windermere's      Fan, 

158,   171,  205,   235 
Laube,   Heinrich,   146 
Laws,  282 
League    of    Youth,   The,   66, 

67,  76,  158,  201,  228 
Lebendige    Stunden,    155 
Le    Bon,   Gustave,   91,    164, 

166 
Legouv^,  Ernest,  116 
Lemaitre,    Jules,    113 
Lessing,    Gotthold,    44,     61, 

95,  169,  255,  257,  261 
Letourneau,   C,   168 
Liebelei,  211,  214 
Life  of  Addison,  285 
Life  of  Man,  The,  144 
Lillo,  George,  256,  257,  264 


Little  Eyolf,  66,  67,  76,  134 

264,  278 
London  Merchant,  The,  256, 

264 
London   Prodigal,    The,   256 
Lonely    Lives    (v.    Einsame 

Menschen) 
Lope  de  Vega,  57  (v.  Vega) 
Loraine,  Robert,  135 
Loiver  Depths,  The,  127   (v. 

Nachtasyl) 
Lynggard  and  Company,  135 

Macbeth,  64,   157 
MacKaye,  Percy,  102,  223 
Madras     House,    The,     137, 

155,  175 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  4,  36, 

45,    63,    64,    85,    109,    137, 

138,     139,    141,    142,     144, 

153,    155,    158,     177,    186, 

268,    277,    280 
Magistrate,    The,    205 
Man     and    Superman,     135, 

136,    157,    241,    246 
Mansfield,    Richard,    170 
Maria   Magdalena,    157,   261 
Maria  Stuart,  73 
Marinetti,  F.  T.,  23 
Marlowe,     Christopher,     45, 

103,   125,   199 
Marx,  Karl,  278 
Master  Builder,  The,  66,  67, 

76,  142,  207,  214,  216 
Maternite,  121,  128,  278 
Maupassant,   Guy  de,   141 
McKinnel,   Norman,   135 
M^dan,    120 
Manage    d' Artistes,    119 
Mercier,  Sebastian,  257,  259 
Meredith,   George,   104,   175, 

273 
Middleton,  George,   179,  272 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

A,   306 
Milestones,  68 


318 


INDEX 


Mill,  John   Stuart,  99 
Misalliance,    136 
insurables,  Les,  13 
Miss  Julia,  71,  80,  119,  123, 

128,  130,  208 
Miss     Sara     Sampson,     257, 

260 
Molifere,    J.-B.   Poquelin    de, 

9,  11,  15,   16,  35,  96,   119, 

158,    167,    199,    205,    258, 

295,  300 
Mommsen,  Theodor,  276 
Moody,    William    Vaughan, 

135,  157,  224 
Mrs.  Dane's  Defense,  157 
Mrs.     Warren's     Profession, 

80,  128,   136,  214,  278 
Murray,  Gilbert,  32 

Nachtasyl,      155      (v.      The 

Night  Shelter) 
Nana,    127 
Nietzsche,  Friedrich,  3,  7,  10, 

37,  38,  99 
Night  Shelter,   The,  278    (v, 

Nachtasyl) 
Nisard,  Desire,  1G4 
Notorioiis     Mrs.     Ebbsmilh, 

The,  232 
Novalis,  45 
Nowadays,  272 

(Edipus,  36,  73,  77,  102,  133, 

306 
(Edipus  Rex  (v.  (Edipus^ 
Othello,   <25o 
Our  Boys,  35 

Pamela,  264 
Papa  Hamlet,   77 
Pnrisicnve,   Ln,   120 
Pater,   Walter,   30 
Patient    Griselda,    39 
Peer  Oynt,  68,  76,   144,  279 
Pire  de  Famille,  Le,  257 


Pertharite,  205 
Peter  Pan,  298 
Philosophe    sans    le    Savoir, 

Le,  260 
Pigeon,    The,    155,   175 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  The,  107 
Pillars  of  Society,   The,   66, 

67,    76,   206,  216,  279,  287 
Pinero,  Arthur  Wing,  33,  70, 

157,    205,    211,    215,    217, 

223,  232 
Pin  Forte,  II,  231 
Plato,  281,  282,  284 
Piatt,     George     Foster,     64, 

204 
Plays,     Pleasant     and     Un- 
pleasant, 222 
Plutarch,  276 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  140,  141, 

280,   281 
Poe,  Lugn^,  131 
Poetics,  52,  54,  55,  216,  254, 

283 
Pompce,  205 
Power    of    Darkness,     119, 

122,   127 
Pratique   du   Theatre,   199 
Pretenders,   The,  68,  76 
Professor     Bernhardi,     137, 

157 
Puissance   de    TAn^bres,   119 

(v.  Power  of  Darkness) 
Puttenham,  George,  255 

Quinlan,  M.  A.,  282 
Quo    Vadis,    107 

Racine,  Jean,  269 
Raffles,  271 
Rapin,   Ren^,   285 
Ratten,  Die,  149,  262 
Raven,   The.   140 
Reinhardt,  Max,  64,  131,  132, 

142,  204,  303,  306 
Ren^e,  80 
Republic,  282 


INDEX 


319 


Revenants,  Les,  119  (v. 
Ohosts) 

Rhodes,    Cecil,    276 

Riccoboni,  Antoine  Fran- 
cois,   258 

Richard  III,  213 

Richardson,  Samuel,  265, 
298 

Ricketts,  Charles,  135 

Ring,  The,  302 

Robortelli,  Francesco,  56 

Rod,  Eduard,  95 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  255, 
287 

Rosmersholm,  66,  67,  76,  80, 
216 

Rostand,  Edmond,  47,  185 

Rougon-Macquart,   114 

Rousseau,  Jean-Jacques,  265, 
278 

Ruskin,  John,  16 

Ruysbroeck,  Jan  Van,  45 

Rymer,  Thomas,  285 

Saint   Augustine,   197 
Sainte-Beuve,    Charles     Au- 

gustin,    249 
Salom4,  63,  142,  157 
Sand,  George,  21 
Sandeau,  Jules,  172 
Sarcey,   Francisque,   133 
Sardou,   Victorien,    196,   212 
Savva,  127 
Schiller,    Friedrich    von,    47, 

73,    77,    155,    257 
Schlaf,    Johannes,    78,    121, 

122 
Schlegel,     August     Wilhelm 

von,   164 
Schnitzler,     Arthur,    4,    35, 

135,     137,     155,     157,    158, 

170,  211,  214,  231 
Scrap  of  Paper,  A,  196 
Scribe,  Eugene,  44,  116,  117, 

196,    200,    201,    207 
Sebastopol,  279 


Second  Mrs.  Tanqtieray,  The, 

215,  217 
Sedaine,    ]Michel    Jean,    257, 

260 
Seneca,  198 

Sept  Princesses,  Les,   155 
Servant   in  the  House,  The, 

70,  142 
Shakespeare,  William,  10, 
11,  15,  34,  35,  36,  41,  45, 
47,  57,  59,  73,  103,  125, 
142,  150,  177,  191,  198, 
199,  213,  255,  256,  276, 
283,  295,  308 
Shaw,  George  Bernard,  4,  7, 
8,  16,  30,  31,  35,  36,  38,  46, 
47,  69,  70,  71,  78,  80,  81, 
84,  90,  102,  104,  105,  106, 
107,  128,  135,  136,  156, 
157,  158,  159,  168,  170, 
171,  172,  175,  176,  195, 
208,  209,  214,  217,  219, 
221,  222,  223,  224,  226, 
237,  240,  241,  245,  246, 
247,  253,  256,  258,  266, 
278,  298,  299 
She,  206 

Shelley,    Percy    Bysshe,   172 
Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley, 

137,   189 
Sidney,  Sir   Philip,  269,  284 
Sienkiewickz,     Henryk,     107 
Silver  Box,  The,  70 
Smith,  C.  Alphonso,  141 
Sonnenfels,       Adolf       von, 

263 
Sophocles,  73,  102,  133,  155, 

198 
Spencer,  Herbert,  270 
Spielhagen,  Friedrich,  140 
Spingarn,  Joel  Elias,  56 
Spring  Chicken,   The,  90 
Stanislavsky,  Konstantin,  64, 

204,    303,    306 
Stevens,  Alfred,  39 
Strauss,  Richard,  70,  71 


820 


INDEX 


strife,  69,  137,  157 

Strindberg,  August,  8,  20,  35, 
63,  64,  69,  70,  71,  80,  83, 
89,  119,  123,  128,  129,  130, 
131,  132,  135,  140,  142, 
144,  155,  156,  157,  158, 
159,  170,  195,  206,  208, 
214,  239,  280,  303 

Stronger,   The,   206 

Sudermann,  Hermann,  8,  80, 
217,    264 

Suite  du  Menteur,  La,  205 

Sullivan,  Arthur,  210 

Sumtirtin,  142 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 
91 

Synge,  John  Millington,  143, 
224. 

Taine,     Hippolyte,     8,     29, 

114 
Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and 

the  Arabesque,  140 
Tarde,   Gabriel,   164 
Tart  life,  Le,   15 
Tchekhov,     Anton,     4,     134, 

176,    177,    178,    280 
Technik    des    Dramas,    28 
Theodore,   205 
There      are      Crimes      and 

Crimes,  142 
Therhe  Baquin,  80,  130 
They,  281 

Thomas,  Augustus,  223,  227 
Timon,  255 
To  Damascus,  144 
Tolstoy,   Lyof,  3,   7,   16,   22, 

106,"  119,    121,    122,    127, 

279,  291 
To-morrow,   102 
Trissino,  G.   G.,  56 
Triith,  The,  88 
Turgenev,    Ivan,    92,    195 
Twain,  Mark,  7 
Two    Mr.    Wetherbys,    The, 

69,    70 


Uncle  Vanya,  280 

Vega,     Lope     de,     57      (v. 

Lope) 
Vermdchtniss,  Das,   135 
Verne,  Jules,  5 
Voltaire,        Francois  -  Marie 

Arouet  de,  258,  269 
Vor  Sonnenaufgang,  80,  119, 

128,    231 
Voysey     Inheritance,      The, 

137,  264 

Wagner,  Richard,  7,  28,  29, 

92,  302 
Walklev,    Arthur    Bingham, 

30,  136 
WaUenslein,   157,  279 
Walter,  Eugene,  197 
Waste,  35,  70 
Weavers,  The,  103 
Weber,  Die,  127,  278 
Wedekind,    Franz,    158.    209 
Weismann,  August,  288 
WetterJeuchten,  280 
Wharton,  Edith,  226 
When  We  Dead  Awaken,  66, 

76,  155,  216,  217 
Whetstone,   George,   284 
Whistler,  James  McNeill,  21 
White  Horses,  80 
Whitman,  Walt,  255 
Widoii'ers'  Houses,  214 
Wild  Duck,  The.  66,  67,  76, 

90,  217,  287,  302 
Wilde,  Oscar,  17,  21.  31,  63, 

64,  81,  137,   141,  150,   157, 

158,    171,    177,    185,     189, 

190,     194,    205,     223,    224, 

235,  237,  271,  298 
Winter,   William,   170 
Winter's  Tale,  A,  306 
Wolf,  Lucie,  192,  201 
Wolff,  Pierre,  119 
Woman  of  No  Importance, 

A,  171 


INDEX  321 

Woman,   The,  272  Zaza,  90 

Zerbrorhene  Krug,  Der,  73 
Yorkshire  Traqedij,  The,  256  Zola,  Emile,  65,  80,  92,  106, 
You   Never    Can    Tell,   214,  114,    115,    117,    121,    127, 

241  130,  195 


CLARK'S  CONTINENTAL  DRAMA  OF  TO-DAY— OutUne* 
for  Its  Study 

By  Barrett  H.  Clark,  Editor  of  and  Translator  of  two  of 
the    plays    in    "Three    Modern    French    Plays."      12mo. 
$1.35  net. 
Suggestions,  questions,  biographies,  and  bibliographies  for 
use  in  connection  with  the  study  of  some  of  the  more  import- 
ant plays  of  Ibsen,  Bjornsen,  Strindberg,  Tolstoy,  Gorky, 
TcHEKOFF,  Andreyeff,  Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  Wedekind, 
Schnitzler,  Von  Hoffmansthal,  Becque,  Le  Maitre,  Lave- 

DAN,     DONNAY,      MAETERLINCK,     RoSTAND,      BrIEUX,     HeRVIEU, 

GiAcosA,  D'Annunzio,  Echegaray,  and  Galdos. 

In  half  a  dozen  or  less  pages  for  each  play,  Mr.  Clark 
tries  to  indicate,  in  a  way  suggestive  to  playwriters  and 
students,  how  the  skilled  dramatists  write  their  plays.  It  is 
intended  that  the  volume  shall  be  used  in  connection  with 
the  reading  of  the  plays  themselves,  but  it  also  has  an  inde- 
pendent interest  in  itself. 

Prof.  William  L\on  Phelps  of  Yale:  ".  .  .  One  of  the  most  useful 
works  on  the  contemporary  drama.  .  .  _  .  Extremely  practical,  lull 
of  valuable  hints  and  suggestions.     .     .     ." 

Providence  Journal:  "Of  undoubted  value.  ...  At  the  com- 
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nique in  general,  and  of  the  modern  movement  in  particular." 

Sixth  Edition,  Enlarged  and  with  Portraits 

HALE'S    DRAMATIST'S    OF    TO-DAY 

By  Prof.  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr.,  of  Union  College. 
Rostand,      Hauptmann,       Sudermann, 
PiNERo,   Shaw,  Phillips,  Maeterlinck 

"A  Note  on  Standards  of  Criticism,"  "Our  Idea  of 
Tragedy,"  and  an  appendix  of  all  the  plays  of  each  author, 
with  dates  of  their  first  performance  or  publication,  complete 
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New  York  Evening  Post:  "It  is  not  often  nowadays  that  a  theatrical 
book  can  be  met  with  so  free  from  gush  and  mere  eulogy,  or  so 
weighted  by  common  sense  ...  an  excellent  chronological  appendix 
and   full  index     .     .     .     uncommonly  useful   for   reference." 

Brooklyn  Eagle:  "A  dramatic  critic  who  is  not  just  'busting^  himself 
with  Titanic  intellectualities,  but  who  is  a  readable  dramatic  critic. 
.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hale  is  a  modest  and  sensible,  as  well  as  an  acute  and 
sound  critic.  .  .  .  Most  people  will  be  surprised  and  delighted  with 
Mr.   Hale's  simplicity,   perspicuity   and   ingenuousness." 


HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

publishers  new    YORK 


By     GEORGE      MIDDLETON 

NOWADAYS 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts.    2nd  printing.    $1.00  net. 

A  comedy-drama  of  present-day  conditions.  It  deals  specifically  with 
the  conflicting  demands  made  upon  a  mother  by  her  conservative  hus- 
band and  her  radical  daughter  which  lead  to  a  series  of  situations 
revealing  the  deep  comedy  of  modern  life  as  it  affects  "the  family 
feeling."  It  is  a  quiet  play  with  an  unusual  love  story  and  is  prob- 
ably the  first  by  an  American  dramatist  which  attempts  to  portray,  in 
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New  York  Evening  Post:  "...  notable  not  only  as  a  sane 
and  veracious  study  of  contemporary  life,  but  for  the  dramatic  quali- 
ties which  ought  to  make  it  valuable  in  the  theatre.  ...  A  strong 
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tunities and  responsibilities  of  life.  .  .  .  The  story,  free  from  all 
sensationalism  or  extravagance,  is  strong  in  the  naturalness  of  its  sit- 
uations and  the  vitality  of  its  contrasted  personages.     .     .     ." 

EMBERS 

With  The  Failures,  The  Gargoyle,  In  His  House,  Ma- 
donna and  The  Man  Masterful.  2nd  printing.  $1.35 
net. 

These  one-act  plays  of  American  Life  To-day  are  perfectly  practical 
for  clever  amateurs  and  especially  available  for  club  discussion  and 
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portrays  what  love  may  become  in  weak  characters.  The  Gargoyle  shows 
the  pathos  and  insincerity  of  the  literary  temperament.  In  His  House 
and  The  Man  Masterful  are  intimate  studies  of  marriage.  Madonna 
is  a  delicate  picture  of  a  girl's  psychology  on  her  wedding  eve. 

Prof.  William  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale:  "The  plays  are  admirable;  the 
conversations  have  the  true  style  of  human  speech,  and  show  first-rate 
economy  of  words,  every  syllable  advancing  the  plot.  The  little  dramas 
are  full  of  cerebration,  and  I  shall  recommend  them  in  my  public 
lectures." 

TRADITION 

With  On  Bail,  Mothers,  Waiting,  Their  Wife  and  The 
Cheat  of  Pity.    2nd  printing.    $1.35  net. 

A  companion  volume  to  the  above.  Tradition  deals  with  the  attempt 
of  the  dominant  though  kindly  man  of  the  family  to  crush  the  artistic 
ambitions  of  his  wife  and  daughter  through  their  economic  dependence. 
On  Bail  is  a  remorseless  picture  of  a  social  parasite.  Mothers  shows 
the  demands  of  society  upon  motherliness,  while  Waiting  is  a  tender 
portrayal  of  a  long  delayed  marriage  due  to  traditional  feelings.  Their 
Wife  is  an  ironical  comedy  in  the  miasma  of  intrigue;  The  Cheat  of 
Pity  gives  an  intimate  study  of  marriage  and  the  relative  claims  of 
passion  with  pity  and  the  habit  of  life. 

Clayton  Hamilton,  in  an  extended  notice  in  The  Bookman:  "All  of 
these  little  pieces  are  admirable  in  technique:  they  are  soundly  con- 
structed and  written  in  natural  and  lucid  dialogue.  .  .  .  He  has 
sounded  to  the  depths  the  souls  of  those  eccentric  and  extraordinary 
women  whom  he  has  chosen  to  depict." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Lily  A.  Long's  RADISSON:  The  Voyager,  A  Play. 

12mo.  Probable  price  $1.00  (Nov.  7,  1914). 
A  highly  picturesque  play  in  four  acts  and  in  verse.  The 
central  figures  are  Radisson  the  redoubtable  voyageur  w^ho 
explored  the  Upper  Mississippi,  his  brother-in-law^  Groseil- 
liers,  Owcra  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief  and  various 
other  Indians.  The  daring  resource  of  the  two  white  men  in 
the  fact  of  imminent  peril,  the  pathetic  love  of  Owera,  and 
above  all,  the  vivid  pictures  of  Indian  life,  the  women  grind- 
ing corn,  the  council,  dances,  feasting  and  famine  are  notable 
features,  and  over  it  all  is  a  somewhat  unusual  feeling  for 
the  moods  of  nature  which  closely  follow  those  of  the  people 
involved. 

THREE  MODERN  PLAYS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

Lemaitre's  The  Pardon,  and  Lavedan's  Prince  D'Aurec, 
translated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  with  Donnay's  The  Other 
Danger,  translated  by  Charlotte  Tenney  David,  with  an  intro- 
duction to  each  author  by  Barrett  H.  Clark  and  a  Preface 
by  Clayton  Hamilton.  One  volume.  Probable  price,  $1.50 
net.  "The  Pardon"  is  a  brilliant  three-act  love  comedy,  with 
but  three  characters.  "Prince  D'Aurec"  is  a  drama  with  an 
impoverished  Prince,  his  wife,  and  a  Jew  money-lender  as 
protagonists.  It  is  full  of  telling  satire  on  a  decadent  nobility. 
"The  Other  Danger"  is  a  tensely  emotional  play,  centering 
around  a  situation  similar  to  Paula  Tanqueray's,  but  the  out- 
come is  different. 

Alice  Johnstone  Walker's  LITTLE  PLAYS  FROM  AMERICAN 
HISTORY  FOR  YOUNG  FOLK 

$1.00  net. 
In  Hiding  the  Regicides  there  are  a  number  of  brief  and 
stirring  episodes,  concerning  the  pursuit  of  Colonels  Whalley 
and  Goff  by  the  officers  of  Charles  II  at  New  Haven  in  old 
colony  days.  Mrs.  Murray's  Dinner  Party,  in  three  acts, 
is  a  lively  comedy  about  a  Patriot  hostess  and  British  Officers 
in  Revolutionary  Days.  In  the  four  Scenes  from  Lincoln's 
Time,  the  martyred  President  does  not  himself  appear.  They 
cover  Lincoln's  helping  a  little  girl  with  her  trunk,  women 
preparing  lint  for  the  wounded,  a  visit  to  the  White  House  of 
an  important  delegation  from  New  York,  and  of  the  mother 
of  a  soldier  boy  sentenced  to  death — and  the  coming  of  the 
army  of  liberation  to  the  darkeys.  Tho  big  events  are  touched 
upon,  the  mounting  of  all  these  little  plays  is  simplicity  itself, 
and  they  have  stood  the  test  of  frequent  school  performance. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Beulah  Marie  Dix'8   ALLISON'S    LAD    AND    OTHER 
MARTIAL    INTERLUDES 

By  the  co-author  of  the  play,  "The  Road  to  Yesterday,"  and 
author  of  the  novels,  "The  Fighting  Blade,"  "The  Making 
of  Christopher  Ferringham,"  etc.    $1.35  net;  by  mail,  $1.45. 

Allison's  Lad,  The  Htmdrcdth  Trick,  The  Weakest  Link, 
The  Snare  and  the  Fowler,  The  Captain  of  the  Gate,  The 
Dark  of  the  Dazvn. 

Six  stirring  war  episodes,  perfectly  practicable  for  perform- 
ance by  clever  amateurs;  at  the  same  time  they  make  decidedly 
interesting  reading.  Most  of  them  occur  in  the  dread  pause 
before  some  mighty  conflict.  Three  in  Cromwellian  days,  one 
at  the  close  of  the  French  Revolution,  another  at  the  time  of 
the  Hundred  Years'  War,  and  the  last  during  the  Thirty  Years' 
War.  The  author  has  most  ingeniously  managed  to  give  the 
feeling  of  big  events,  though  employing  but  few  players.  The 
emotional  grip  is  strong,  even  tragic. 

"  The  technical  mastery  of  Miss  Dix  is  great,  but  her  spiritual  mastery 
is  greater.  For  this  book  iives  in  memory,  and  the  spirit  of  its  teachings  is, 
in  a  most  intimate  sense,  the  spirit  of  its  teacher.  Noble  passion  holding 
the  balance  between  life  and  death  is  the  motif  sharply  outlined  and  vigor- 
ously portrayed-  In  each  interlude  the  author  has  seized  upon  a  vital 
situation  and  has  massed  all  her  forces  so  as  to  enhance  its  significance.  " — 
Boston  Transcript. 

Martin  Schiitze's  HERO  AND  LEANDER 

A  drama  in  verse,  $1.25  net;  by  mail,  $1.33. 

"Mr,  Schutze  has  given  us  a  new  Holofernes,  and  in  doing  this  he  has 
very  greatly  intensified  the  tragic  situation.  .  .  .  A  well-developed  tragical 
motif  .  .  .  that  wonderful  moment  of  climax  .  .  .  the  tragic  integrity  of 
the  character  of  Judith  is  maintained.  .  .  .  The  details  of  the  drama  are 
well  carried  out.  .  .  .  Mr,  Schutze  has  not  only  been  able  to  change  tradi- 
tional elements  in  the  old  story  and  yet  render  his_  version  strong  and 
convincing,  but  he  has  also  given  us  a  memorable  addition  to  the  old  Judith 
legend.  ^''—Boston  Transcript, 

Martin  Schiitze's  JUDITH 

A  drama  in  verse.     $\.2h  net;   by  mail  ;^1.33 

"Perhaps  the  fullest  and  strongest  drama  that  has  ever  been  written 
about  these  lovers.  " — Chicago  Record- Herald. 

"The  consecration  of  the  Hero  in  the  Temple  of  Venus,  the  apparition  of 
Leandcr,  his  encounter  with  the  temple  guards,  the  episodes  attending  Hero's 
surrender  and  the  storm  with  its  tragic  outcome  are  all  valuable  theatrical 
incidents  ...  a  capable,  dignified  and  interesting  composition  which 
would  be  a  credit  to  any  theatre  producing  It.  ^'—Nation. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


By  Clayton  Hamilton 
STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

Contents:  The  New  Art  of  Making  Plays,  The  Pictorial 
Stage,  The  Drama  of  Illusion,  The  Modern  Art  of  Stage 
Direction,  A  Plea  for  a  New  Type  of  Play,  The  Undramatic 
Drama,  The  Value  of  Stage  Conventions,  The  Supernatural 
Drama,  The  Irish  National  Theatre,  The  Personality  of  the 
Playwright,  Where  to  Begin  a  Play,  Continuity  of  Structure, 
Rhythm  and  Tempo,  The  Plays  of  Yesteryear,  A  New  De- 
fense of  Melodrama,  The  Art  of  the  Moving-Picture  Play, 
The  One-Act  Play  in  America,  Organizing  an  Audience,  The 
Function  of  Dramatic  Criticism,  etc.,  etc.     $1.50  net 

Nation:  "Information,  alertness,  coolness,  sanity  and  the  coinmand 
of  a  forceful  and  pointed  English.  ...  A  good  book,  in  spite  of 
all  deductions." 

Prof.  Archibald  Henderson,  in  The  Drama:  "Uniformly  excellent  in 
quality.  .  .  .  Continuously  interesting  in  presentation  .  .  . 
uniform  for  high  excellence  and  elevated  standards.     .     .     ." 

Athenaeum  (London) :  "His  discussions,  though  incomplete,  are 
sufficiently  provocative   of  thought  to  be  well  worth   reading." 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE 

The  Theory  of  the  The.\tre. — What  is  a  Play? — The 
Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences. — The  Actor  and  the  Dra- 
matist.— Stage  Conventions  in  Modern  Times. — The  Four 
Leading  Types  of  Drama:  Tragedy  and  Melodrama;  Comedy 
and  Farce. — The  Modern  Social  Drama,  etc.,  etc. 

Other  Principles  of  Dramatic  Criticism. — The  Public 
and  the  Dramatist. — Dramatic  Art  and  the  Theatre  Business. 
— Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric  Journalism. — The  Inten- 
tion of  Performance. — The  Quality  of  New  Endeavor. — 
Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays. — Themes  in  the  Theatre. — 
The  Function  of  Imagination,  etc.,  etc.  4th  printing.  $1.50  net. 

Bookman:  "Presents  coherently  a  more  substantial  body  of  idea  on 
the  subject  than  perhaps  elsewhere  accessible." 

Boston  Transcript:  "At  every  moment  of  his  discussion  he  has  a 
firm  grasp  upon  every  phase  of  the  subject." 


THE  GERMAN  DRAMA  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

By  Georg  Witkowski.    Translated  by  Prof.  L.  E.  Horning. 

Kleist,  Grillparzer,  Hebbel,  Ludwig,  Wildenbruch,  Sudermann,  Haupt- 
mann   and  minor   dramatists   receive  attention.      12mo.      $1.00. 

New  York  Times  Review:  "The  translation  of  this  brief,  clear  and 
logical  account  was  an  extremely  happy  idea.  Nothing  at  the  same  time 
so  comprehensive  and  terse  has  appeared  on  the  subject." 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS    ON    AND    OF    SCHOOL    PLAYS 

By  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay 

HOW  TO  PRODUCE  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 

The  author  is  a  recognized  authority  on  the  production 
of  plays  and  pageants  in  the  pubhc  schools,  and  combines  en- 
thusiastic sympathy  with  sound,  practical  instructions.  She 
tells  both  how  to  inspire  and  care  for  the  young  actor,  how 
to  make  costumes,  properties,  scenery,  where  to  find  de- 
signs for  them,  what  music  to  use,  etc.,  etc.  She  prefaces  it 
all  with  an  interesting  historical  sketch  of  the  plays-for-chil- 
dren  movement,  includes  elaborate  detailed  analyses  of  per- 
formances of  Browning's  Pied  Piper  and  Rosetti's  Pageant 
of  the  Months,  and  concludes  with  numerous  valuable  an- 
alytical lists  of  plays  for  various  grades  and  occasions. 
16mo,  probable  price  $1.20  net   (Feb.,  1914). 

PATRIOTIC  PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS 

Pageant  of  Patriotism  (Outdoor  and  Indoor  Versions)  : — 
*Princess  Pocahontas,  Pilgrim  Interlude,  Ferry  Farm  Epi- 
sode, *George  Washington's  Fortune,  *Daniel  Boone :  Patriot, 
Benjamin  Franklin  Episode,  Lincoln  Episode,  Final  Tableau. 

Hawthorne  Pageant  (for  Outdoor  or  Indoor  Produc- 
tion) : — Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Old  Manse,  Prologue  by  the 
Muse  of  Hawthorne,  In  Witchcraft  Days,  Dance  Interlude, 
Merrymount,  etc. 

The  portions  marked  with  a  star  (*)  are  one-act  plays 
suitable  for  separate  performance.  There  are  full  directions 
for  simple  costumes,  scenes,  and  staging,     12mo.     $1.35  net. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

Short  plays  in  verse  for  children  of  fourteen  or  younger : — 
"The  House  of  the  Heart  (Morality  Play)— "The  Enchanted 
Garden"  (Flower  Play) — "A  Little  Pilgrim's  Progress"  (Mor- 
ality Play) — "A  Pageant  of  Hours"  (To  be  given  Out  of 
Doors) — "On  Christmas  Eve."  "The  Princess  and  the  Pix- 
ies."   "The  Christmas  Guest"  (Miracle  Play.),  etc.    $1.10  net. 

"An  addition  to  child  drama  which  has  been  sorely  needed." — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE  SILVER  THREAD 

And  Other  Folk  Plays.  "The  Silver  Thread"  (Cornish)  ;' 
"The  Forest  Spring"  (Italian)  ;  "The  Foam  Maiden"  (Celtic)  ; 
"Troll  Magic"  (Norwegian)  ;  "The  Three  Wishes"  (French)  ; 
"A  Brewing  of  Brains"  (English)  ;  "Siegfried"  (German)  ; 
"The  Snow  Witch"  (Russian).    $1.10  net. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND    COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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